Yesterday, I dozed off on the couch during a ballgame and awoke nearly two hours later. While sleeping, I had one of the most inexplicable and strange dreams I've ever encountered. It was a two-part dream. The first was a somewhat surreal scene, steeped more in the ordinary with real details than fantastic but with just enough surreal coincidence to make the dreamer conscious of the fantasy. The latter half, however, was like nothing I've ever experienced before and I typed about 2,500 words last night describing the whole thing. Nevertheless, I have no intentions of sharing such intimate knowledge and experience as that of the latter half, but I would like to share an embellishment of the former. I know, I'm such a tease.
The eggs at Dena's Diner are always runny. I've never ordered them actually, but it's something I've noticed during my visits there. I usually just settle for a burger and shake. I'm a simple guy. In fact, the last time I was in here, that was exactly what I ordered. Burger. Everything on it. Hold the mayo. And give me a vanilla shake. It was months ago. Four in the morning after everyone else was closed, and I was craving something greasy on a bun after a late night. I dined with the pit-stop truckers coming through town for a bite and the morning delivery guys grabbing coffee before heading out.
This afternoon, though, I went with a veggie sandwhich and water. I've been trying to change things. Trying to get myself in shape. Trying to get things back to where they once were, like my weight for instance. I've been hovering around one hundred and sixty for quite a while and could afford to drop another five.
The sandwhich was alright. Not worth the five bucks I wouldn't say, but eating better costs in more ways than one. Dena comes over in her baby blue blouse and pulls the pencil from behind her ear. She's lean and her arms are covered in blue veins like running rivers and tributaries into calloused hands destined for carpal tunnel. She gives me a small, brief smile and then comes to the business. Her face is concentrated with that no time for bullshit look. She asks again if I want a beer despite the fact that I told her I'm living different now. She doesn't care. She remembers me from the old days.
I thank her again and politely remind her. "No thanks, Dena. Remember I'm trying to change things now. No beer today. Just the check please."
She smiles again, but it's a smile that says she doesn't believe I'm sincere, or rather a smile that says she thinks i'm full of shit. No matter. I like the atmosphere in Dena's, or rather the lack of atmosphere. And I like Dena bouncing back and forth in her baby blue blouse behind the counter with her no time for bullshit brow furrowed, coffee pot in hand constantly.
I pay the bill and leave a tip. It's a good tip. I tip well, and Dena knows it though she'd die before let me know that she knows it. I push myself up from the counter and give Dena a wave. "Thanks, Dena. I'll catch ya later."
She's flipping the patties on the flat-top, but she may as well flip me the bird as I wait a second. She ignores me, devoting all of her attention to those bloody burgers and the oily bubbling sound of the fries in the deep fryer. I shrug it off and head for the door. I only have a week in town before I leave for my new job in Wickenburg, just northwest of Sun City and El Mirage. Sure it's only fifty miles away, but it's another world all the same.
I'm thinking about what I should do for my last week in Phoenix when I catch sight of her in the booth out of the corner of my eye. I stop and turn to look at her. It is her.
She's focused intently on the screen of her laptop. Her eyes are concentrated on reading. I stand quietly for a moment until she becomes distracted and aware that someone is standing by her booth and looking at her. She looks up still with her brow knit in hard concentration, and she doesn't recognize me for a split second until the thought of what it is she has been reading clears from her thoughts.
I grin stupidly. "Hey. Hey, how's it going?"
She looks at me hard. She's surprised, and she assumes a look that suggests she thinks it's weird that I've run into her, a look that suggests it's weird like I purposely made this happen, an accusatory look like I've followed her here and am now feigning surprise at having run into her. But a nearly unnoticeable smile steals across her face for only the most miniscule moments, and she's considering it all and she's somehow flattered at the thought of it. She'd kind of like it if I had followed her and purposefully bumped into her like it was all a coincidence out of the blue. She'd like that, though she'd never in her life let me know that.
"Um, hi." Her accusatory look turns to that of curiosity.
I notice her hair's down, which is unusual. "What's been going on? How has your summer been? Let's see, the season starts soon, right?" I'm bombarding her with questions, but I haven't seen her for months, and she hasn't responded to my last couple of texts and emails, which is a sign.
"Not much." She folds her laptop down. "I went home for a few weeks until I got tired there and came back here. I've been running a lot to get back in shape, and yeah we leave for training camp at the end of the week."
I can tell she's been running because of the little bumps at the top of her forehead, along the hairline. Little stress acne bumps that I've always found so beautiful. When school starts, she'll be running ten miles a day and taking almost twenty hours of classes. She's a writing and aerospace engineering student. Her father works at one of the state's governmental labs near an air force base. He bird watches in his spare time. She writes the most exquisite poems about birds. "How's the ankle?"
"It's getting there." She's packing up to go. "How's the writing coming along."
I shake my head. "I've had to put it on hold for a bit now. I've had to focus on preparing for my new job. I got a lot done early in the summer, but it's been weeks now since I started and finished anything."
She shakes her head and says she understands, and I clench and unclench my hand in my pocket and tighten my grip on my briefcase with the other. "Well, I've got to run. I'm supposed to meet Mark soon."
Now, it's my turn to look at her accusingly. I do momentarily and hide it quickly but not quickly enough. She's caught my shift in temperament, but she continues moving, unperturbed. She gathers her gym bag, school bag, and laptop satchel and scoots out from her seat at the booth. I've tilted my head back and assumed a more nonchalant posture that's easy to see through. "Well, I hope you have a great season and get back to full speed soon."
"Thanks and it was good seeing you."
"Yeah, it was." She's standing and looking at me now. I can tell she's anxious to leave. "Send me anything you want an opinion on, you know. I'm happy to do it."
She smiles, and it's a somewhat pitious smile now. She's walking past me, where I'm rooted to the floor. "Thanks, I'll do that. Well, goodbye."
I watch her sandy brown hair kick up in the wind as she opens the diner door, and the little bell that sounds for new customers tinkles lightly. I watch her hair lifting up into the air like the desert sand on the wind, and she walks along the row of windows with her head down until she passes to where the drywall begins, and she's out of sight. I stand awkwardly for several passing moments, thinking.
I'm angry, but I know I shouldn't be. So she's back with Mark, but it's nothing unexpected. She's back with the guy she thinks she should be with, starting quarterback in high school, eats right, treats his body like a temple, has a great smile and a shit personality. It's nothing out of the ordinary.
I turn back and look at the diner for one last time, and Dena's staring at me with the pencil stuck behind her ear, chewing on her gum, and looking at me knowingly. She laughs with a single exhaled huff and turns back to her grill and bubbling fries. I sigh and walk out the door into the blinding sunlight. The clear glass door quietly closes behind me and shuts out the sounds of sizzling and bubbling and clattering dishes and the little tinkling sound of a customer who's had his last supper in this town.
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