Ghost Not Forgotten

I: Now

*banner by emma789 (livejournal)

It started out as a normal sort of day, like every other day before it: customers in, customers out, customers wrongly predicting the weather. I felt a blister coming on at the bottom of my heel and it made me think I needed new shoes.

Like this town, my thoughts had been without excitement for years. I found myself getting in a tiffy over things like when we had potato soup for the special or when somebody tipped me 25 cents more than they usually do. My prediction of needing new shoes would've been the climax of my day, if it had been the normal sort of day I thought it was.

The same seven people were in for lunch, and kept to their usual tables. Topics of conversation stayed on tractors and cows and fishing. The usual. Orders were the same; I didn't even have to ask. When it came time for their usual arrival, their grub was ready and plopped it in front of them before they could get their coats off.

By the window, Miles and Bernie – two of the oldest coots in the world – were fighting over who caught the biggest fish the week before. Melba and her daughter Daisy were stirring up trouble by the broken fireplace, gossiping and tainting another local's name. By the radio, Buck, Carl, and Leroy were drooling over some John Deere tractor they'd seen in some magazine and I was up to my armpits in tomato soup – the day's special.

Only the soup special seemed to change in that place.

But I was on edge. Not over the soup, but over a dream I'd had the night before. It had nothing to do with anything and I barely remembered what happened in it, since it was all fuzzy scenes that made no sense, but the dream had a scent, a scent I hadn't smelled in ages. I used to think of the scent often, but it had faded over the years, something I was grateful for. But this dream brought back the memory of the scent like a smack upside the head, filling my nose with long grass and sun-baked skin.

The scent of him.

Working in Burty Shellman's field for nearly half of his life was to blame for it, but I never had complaints. I used to love leaning my nose against his neck and breathing him in.

I hadn't thought of that or him in years. He had a way of popping up in my dreams, or in my thoughts when something would remind me of him, but such things had become few and far between over the last 16 years. I hadn't a clue why he decided to haunt me again, especially with his smell, the first memory of him to go.

I told myself to forget it, move on. It was just a dream, it didn't mean anything. But as I opened up the diner and as I went about the morning routine, I kept getting whiffs of it, like it was just resting in the back of my nose and every once and awhile waved about so I wouldn't forget it was there.

It wasn't helping my mood, making me "ornery" as Della called it. Another one of her dictionary words. Reading the dictionary was her way of sounding "more versed" as she said. I couldn't even tease her for it. The whole town – me included – had learned a lot of fancy words because of her.

By lunch time my mind had been thankfully taken over by orders and gossip and wiping counters and pouring Della her – what seemed like – 80th cup of coffee. As I made change for Carl, I kept my back to the rest of the diner as a way to feel alone for a moment, just a moment. I struggled to keep my cool as I wrestled with the register drawer. The old rusty bastard didn't like to close all the way.

Pushing with all my might, it finally slammed shut with a bang. Satisfied, I nearly sang, but I realized it was quiet. Real quiet. I thought Bernie and Miles had finally strangled each other to death and was about to make a crack about how I'd call the funeral home when I was hit with a scent.