I left the house on Tuesday at seven thirty, yawning, in a pair of worn jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. I started my old dirt-streaked Jeep and rolled down the quiet suburban street en route to Janie’s, the little local diner. Ever since my wife left me five years ago, I’ve been going there for breakfast every morning. It’s the one place Charlotte would never go, so when she left, it seemed reasonable and appropriately ironic to make it a part of my daily routine. Nevertheless, it’s harder to replace her than I ever imagined. Six days a week, I join the ranks of lonely diner dwellers. We all twitched to grab a hold of our coffee with the same tired eyes. Yet even in a town full of early risers and floundering divorcees, seven thirty was a quiet time at Janie’s.
Every day, as soon as I slide comfortably into my usual booth in the corner, Lucy descends upon me with an unflappable smile. Anyone else would describe it as an infectious one, but I don’t often smile. Lucy is the diner’s only waitress above the age of thirty-five (she’s sixty-eight) and also the friendliest. On my first day eating there, I ordered scrambled eggs and toast with jam. She smiled and had my food ready for me within five minutes. The second day, she made a beeline for my table and told me how delighted she was to see me again. She introduced herself as Lucy and asked what I wanted (scrambled eggs and toast with jam...) By the fourth day, she had my food waiting for me as soon as I’d settled into my booth and unzipped my jacket. She’s funny that way, stubbornly thinking that people don’t change. She’s seen enough customers to know that food is usually a constant in people’s lives, variations rare.
After two weeks, she lowered herself into the booth across from me, put her order pad and her elbows on the table, and watched as I ate my first bite of eggs. After chewing, I looked up at her with a blank stare of confusion. She giggled and swept her hands to indicate that there was only one other customer in the diner. “So. I’ve seen you every day for a while, hon. What’s your name?”
“John,” I answered quickly, and then attempted to shovel in another bite.
She smiled again and said, “That’s my son’s name. He’s about your age. Forty- eight.”
“I’m forty-five,” I told her, somewhat indignantly, and bit into my toast.
And from then on, after depositing my predictable order on the table, Lucy would sit down across from me and reminisce. “Ever since moving from California to Montana, my life’s been, well, a bit of a mistake,” Lucy said matter-of-factly after our fourth week together, sipping the water in front of her. She crossed one pudgy leg over the other. “And that was twenty years ago! I was just trying to escape, you know? After my husband died, Lewis slowly stopped calling. That’s not how a son is supposed to treat his mother!” I nod, and she is egged on. “Lewis has his own little family now. A wife and a daughter...I’ve never met her. My granddaughter.”
“That’s awful! I’m sorry,” I said sympathetically, before sheepishly asking for the check.
Aw, come on—sometimes I just wasn’t in the mood for her ramblings. Sometimes she wouldn’t even look at me, just stare out the window into the bleak parking lot and talk. You could always tell this diner was the last place she wanted to be. I could see past her cheery smiles, the supposed wisdom of her wrinkles, her resigned acceptance of the arthritis festering in her joints and limbs, to the woman who couldn’t believe her life had come to this. She was single, aged sixty-eight, living in a cheap condo complex in the middle of the vacant fields of Montana. She had a son right out of college, and decided to marry the jerk that got her pregnant. And after all that, the son who’d flung her world upside down had stopped talking to her for no reason at all. Of course she still loved him deeply anyway.
On a snowy morning years after our first meeting, Lucy told me it was her birthday. “I’m seventy-one today,” she admitted, and I stared at her, shocked. Seeing Lucy almost every single day had led me to believe she wasn’t getting older, at least not like the rest of us. She was seemingly immortal. I hadn’t been aware of her hair whitening gradually to overtake the sloppy dye job, or the growing wrinkles on her hands and face, the loose pockets of skin under her elbows and eyes, or the almost unnoticeable shake in what was once a stronger, steadier voice. “Happy birthday!” I managed, and toasted her with my half-drunk orange juice.
She blushed and sighed, lost in memories.
On this particularly miserable Tuesday, five years after our first meeting, Lucy did not have my food waiting for me when I arrived. As I looked incredulously around the small diner, taking in the cracks in the walls and the faded booths and the sticky counter and the grumbling coffee maker, I noticed that I was among a larger crowd. Almost all of the tables were filled, and my gaze caught the edge of Lucy’s apron as she disappeared into the kitchen. Before I could become increasingly offended and slightly disoriented, Delilah, the twenty-seven year old baby faced blonde, approached me. Her skin was smooth and her voice syrupy. I hesitated slightly before ordering chocolate chip pancakes. She nodded buoyantly as she wrote it down, and then sashayed away into the kitchen. Lucy never came over to say hi. I finished my stack of pancakes, licked the gooey residue off my fingertips, and then exited the diner, emerging into the morning sunshine.
I climbed into my Jeep in the parking lot and drove to work, per usual. I stepped into the sterile, white washed building, took the elevator to the eighth floor, and shuffled through the hallways. It’s been five years but Beth, the older lady who occupies the corner cubicle, still gives me this intense look of pity whenever I pass. It probably doesn’t help that I walk with my shoulders naturally stooped, but when I remember Charlotte was supposed to be the love of my life, I find it hard to straighten up. Eventually, after obliging the nosy, overbearing Beth with an attempted grin, I reached my office. I immediately sank into the swivel chair and closed my eyes, just for a moment. The rest of the day proved torturously sluggish, and when the sun began its descent, I drove towards home.
As the car clock melted from 6:58 to 6:59, my Jeep was bumping along past Janie’s Diner. It glowed a warm yellow in the dark. Impulsively, I careened into a random driveway, reversed, and headed back towards the light. Upon entering, I headed straight for Lucy, who was busily ringing up an order, glasses balanced on her nose. When she saw me, she shrieked—loudly. “John! What are you doing here?”
I shrugged. “I’m hungry.”
She smiled the smile I was used to. “I’ll be right with you. Go get your booth!”
It was weird to sit there with the windows showing nothing but night. When Lucy came over, I asked her impulsively, “What are you doing for dinner tonight, Luce?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Eating with you, silly!” And she sat down. We were both in our place now, where we knew we should be.
Every day, as soon as I slide comfortably into my usual booth in the corner, Lucy descends upon me with an unflappable smile. Anyone else would describe it as an infectious one, but I don’t often smile. Lucy is the diner’s only waitress above the age of thirty-five (she’s sixty-eight) and also the friendliest. On my first day eating there, I ordered scrambled eggs and toast with jam. She smiled and had my food ready for me within five minutes. The second day, she made a beeline for my table and told me how delighted she was to see me again. She introduced herself as Lucy and asked what I wanted (scrambled eggs and toast with jam...) By the fourth day, she had my food waiting for me as soon as I’d settled into my booth and unzipped my jacket. She’s funny that way, stubbornly thinking that people don’t change. She’s seen enough customers to know that food is usually a constant in people’s lives, variations rare.
After two weeks, she lowered herself into the booth across from me, put her order pad and her elbows on the table, and watched as I ate my first bite of eggs. After chewing, I looked up at her with a blank stare of confusion. She giggled and swept her hands to indicate that there was only one other customer in the diner. “So. I’ve seen you every day for a while, hon. What’s your name?”
“John,” I answered quickly, and then attempted to shovel in another bite.
She smiled again and said, “That’s my son’s name. He’s about your age. Forty- eight.”
“I’m forty-five,” I told her, somewhat indignantly, and bit into my toast.
And from then on, after depositing my predictable order on the table, Lucy would sit down across from me and reminisce. “Ever since moving from California to Montana, my life’s been, well, a bit of a mistake,” Lucy said matter-of-factly after our fourth week together, sipping the water in front of her. She crossed one pudgy leg over the other. “And that was twenty years ago! I was just trying to escape, you know? After my husband died, Lewis slowly stopped calling. That’s not how a son is supposed to treat his mother!” I nod, and she is egged on. “Lewis has his own little family now. A wife and a daughter...I’ve never met her. My granddaughter.”
“That’s awful! I’m sorry,” I said sympathetically, before sheepishly asking for the check.
Aw, come on—sometimes I just wasn’t in the mood for her ramblings. Sometimes she wouldn’t even look at me, just stare out the window into the bleak parking lot and talk. You could always tell this diner was the last place she wanted to be. I could see past her cheery smiles, the supposed wisdom of her wrinkles, her resigned acceptance of the arthritis festering in her joints and limbs, to the woman who couldn’t believe her life had come to this. She was single, aged sixty-eight, living in a cheap condo complex in the middle of the vacant fields of Montana. She had a son right out of college, and decided to marry the jerk that got her pregnant. And after all that, the son who’d flung her world upside down had stopped talking to her for no reason at all. Of course she still loved him deeply anyway.
On a snowy morning years after our first meeting, Lucy told me it was her birthday. “I’m seventy-one today,” she admitted, and I stared at her, shocked. Seeing Lucy almost every single day had led me to believe she wasn’t getting older, at least not like the rest of us. She was seemingly immortal. I hadn’t been aware of her hair whitening gradually to overtake the sloppy dye job, or the growing wrinkles on her hands and face, the loose pockets of skin under her elbows and eyes, or the almost unnoticeable shake in what was once a stronger, steadier voice. “Happy birthday!” I managed, and toasted her with my half-drunk orange juice.
She blushed and sighed, lost in memories.
On this particularly miserable Tuesday, five years after our first meeting, Lucy did not have my food waiting for me when I arrived. As I looked incredulously around the small diner, taking in the cracks in the walls and the faded booths and the sticky counter and the grumbling coffee maker, I noticed that I was among a larger crowd. Almost all of the tables were filled, and my gaze caught the edge of Lucy’s apron as she disappeared into the kitchen. Before I could become increasingly offended and slightly disoriented, Delilah, the twenty-seven year old baby faced blonde, approached me. Her skin was smooth and her voice syrupy. I hesitated slightly before ordering chocolate chip pancakes. She nodded buoyantly as she wrote it down, and then sashayed away into the kitchen. Lucy never came over to say hi. I finished my stack of pancakes, licked the gooey residue off my fingertips, and then exited the diner, emerging into the morning sunshine.
I climbed into my Jeep in the parking lot and drove to work, per usual. I stepped into the sterile, white washed building, took the elevator to the eighth floor, and shuffled through the hallways. It’s been five years but Beth, the older lady who occupies the corner cubicle, still gives me this intense look of pity whenever I pass. It probably doesn’t help that I walk with my shoulders naturally stooped, but when I remember Charlotte was supposed to be the love of my life, I find it hard to straighten up. Eventually, after obliging the nosy, overbearing Beth with an attempted grin, I reached my office. I immediately sank into the swivel chair and closed my eyes, just for a moment. The rest of the day proved torturously sluggish, and when the sun began its descent, I drove towards home.
As the car clock melted from 6:58 to 6:59, my Jeep was bumping along past Janie’s Diner. It glowed a warm yellow in the dark. Impulsively, I careened into a random driveway, reversed, and headed back towards the light. Upon entering, I headed straight for Lucy, who was busily ringing up an order, glasses balanced on her nose. When she saw me, she shrieked—loudly. “John! What are you doing here?”
I shrugged. “I’m hungry.”
She smiled the smile I was used to. “I’ll be right with you. Go get your booth!”
It was weird to sit there with the windows showing nothing but night. When Lucy came over, I asked her impulsively, “What are you doing for dinner tonight, Luce?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Eating with you, silly!” And she sat down. We were both in our place now, where we knew we should be.
