Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #28

Mornings seem to be the worst for me. Not because I'm tired or anything. No, it's gearing myself up for another day, like winding up a clock and making sure it runs right all through the day. Ticking off the hours one at a time, minute by minute and second by second.

I like nights, where the minutes run slow. Slow slow slow, sputtering to a halt, to unconsciousness, to dreams. And then you wake up again.

This is how the morning went. You woke up cold and gathered firewood. You tripped over a root and fell but regained your composure (after laughing and laughing and laughing.) You got the fire started. After huddling up next to it (letting the smoke circle you in thick curls, the fire warming your bones), the park ranger came around. Turns out he'd given Clair the blanket during your sleep and had checked on the pair of you periodically through the night.

"Hey, girls. Have a good night?" He quirks an eyebrow, echoing the question.

You scoot closer to the fire, raising your hands in front of you. Blue smoke curls between your fingertips. "It was a bit chilly," you say, and he shakes his head, a slant of a smile on his lips.

"I'll bet. Good thing that fire burned most of the night and was—" He shoots you a pointed look "—well attended."

Smoky the Bear would probably be displeased. Only YOU can prevent forest fires. You scuff your foot in the dirt, drawing long arcs and sweeping them away with your fingertips. The dirt grinds under your fingernails, but there's something clean about it. Pure, even.

"Well, officer," Clair says, "thanks for the blanket. And," she adds in a rushed breath, "not killing our fire last night. Much appreciated." Her blazing smile negates any sting in her words, mocking as they are.

He tips his cap, and his smile curves up a notch. "I'm sure. You girls might want to think about the diner down the road. Best breakfast around. And hot coffee."

Your rumbling stomach asks the question even before it spills from your lips. "Where exactly would that be?"

"We'll give you the blanket back for this information, Mr. Ranger, sir," Clair adds.

"Holding hostages is a crime, young lady." He casts her a stern look. "But I won't charge you today because your friend is so polite." He nods to you before pointing you two in the right direction.

Clair nudges you with her elbow. "Thanks," she whispers.

"Any time."

The ride that morning is much less pleasant than the night before. Wind slips under your collar and sleeves, gnawing at your bones, and it is a relief to arrive at the diner. The place is small and not much to look at. That's how you know the food is good, even before you order. (That, and it's crowded.)

That seems like an understatement though.

It isn't just the people. It's the friendly chatter, and the smell of salt and grease wafting from the kitchen, and banter of the waitstaff. The diner is thick with humanity.

The crowd and coffee and noise and blast of heat are overwhelming for a moment before you decide you're in love with the place. Maybe it's just that it's a haven from the cold, but it might be the waitress telling off a customer ("Benny, we reserve the right to kick your ass to the curb." Whereupon he scowled, stabbing out a cigar as big as your thumb, muttering, "See if you get a tip, Marlene," and still left a thick wad of singles when he paid his bill.) Or maybe you love it because of the fresh brewing coffee (the sputter of the machine starting up, the aroma filling up the whole place.)

Whatever the reason, you love it.

But the riot of people and tantalizing smells (that coffee!) aren't half as inviting as the cozy warmth clinging to your clothes.

Marlene leads you, weaving through the throng, to a small booth. "What can I get you girls?" She eyes the regulars between scrawling down your order.

(Your order: coffee, hash-browns, eggs, bacon, anything hot that smells good.)

"That'll be right out." She clicks her pen and smiles, beautiful despite a few very crooked teeth.

When she brings out a carafe of coffee (hot, bitter, black. It warms every inch of you.), you decide you can die happy. It heats you up from the inside and after a few minutes your teeth even stop chattering. Your face, which is mirrored in a dented napkin-holder, is flushed from the freezing ride over and the chill of the night. The red fades as the coffee takes effect, and soon you can feel your nose again. You crinkle it experimentally.

"I don't think my toes are numb anymore," Clair says after taking a swig of coffee.

"I can feel my face."

She grins, beautifully. (It's her mussed hair and bright eyes and the giddy happiness rolling off of her.)

Marlene causes the most wonderful of interruptions. What she brings out makes you and Clair decide you'll leave all the cash you have on hand as a tip. It's a ridiculous extravagance, but it would be wrong on some cosmic level to not do it. (Or at least that's how you and Clair justify the expense.)

"This is amazing," Clair says, stuffing half a muffin in her mouth. "I cam def—" she swallows "—feel my toes now."

You laugh. "Don't look at me. You're the one that thought it'd be fun to not have supplies."

"Like pioneers, M.," she explains, "it's not about fun."

You roll your eyes. "Whatever you say."

"Yes, I win!"

Taking a sip of coffee, you roll your eyes again.

The rest of the meal is in silence, but it's a comfortable, easy thing. Like rolling hills or summer skies.

When you leave, true to you word, you and Clair pool $27 cash and leave it on the table.