All she cared about was he was late again. Bobbie sat at the counter, her coffee cold and bitter.
"Can you beat this?" the waitress asked, holding up the day's paper and pointing to the headline.
"Don't know of much worse," Bobbie said, "shaking a helpless baby like that." Even as she spoke she knew she was lying, and she didn't care.
"For pity's sake," the waitress said, "the mother's defending the bastard."
"Go on, she's not?" Bobbie said, knowing how women stayed, made excuses for every behavior if they were getting it when and how they needed it.
"He's got post-traumatic syndrome," she read, "that's what the mother says, and the baby's crying set him off. I don't believe in that stuff, do you?" the waitress asked, not waiting for an answer. "Joan" was the name on her uniform.
"Kitchen'll be closing soon, Hon, if you'll be wanting something to eat."
"Little warm up on the coffee maybe, Joan, if you don't mind."
"My pleasure, should have noticed you were running low."
Nothing here seemed real in the fluorescent light.
"Open the paper these days," the waitress said, "all you see is bad news spread out all through from page one even to the comics and classifieds, not to mention sports- and how long has it been since we've had a winning team anyway- and real estate, you'd think that at least would be what you call cheerful, new starts and all, but instead what you get is sink holes swallowing up rows of homes and new developments cancelled because the landfill they're built on has been labeled, like, toxic."
"Poor planning," Bobbie said, "is at the heart of it all."
"Quiet out there, ain't it?"
"Raining, so everyone's tucked in at home."
"Seems like it. Take only a minute, and I can run through a fresh pot for you."
Until then Bobbie had been renting her stool at the counter, paying tips in her mind for each cup. Victor could've picked a better place for her to wait, someplace with real tables and good chairs, maybe even a candle on the table.
"Who you waiting for, Hon?" the waitress asked, then caught Bobbie's expression and her trembling hands gripping the cup, and she backed away. X: with two black lines of magic marker she crossed the day off the calendar, then turned around to Bobbie to say she didn't mean nothing by the question.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Bobbie said, "'cause I'm not sure I know who he is any more, which is something I'm sure you know just what I mean."
Zippers, thought Bobbie, is what I need: one to keep my mouth shut, one to unzip Victor's heart so he's on time so I don't get sick any more, one for my grave to keep it closed until I need it, and one to open the sky so I can see who or what's up there keeping us going, which was the closest she'd come to a prayer since, well, the last time Victor was late.
"Can you beat this?" the waitress asked, holding up the day's paper and pointing to the headline.
"Don't know of much worse," Bobbie said, "shaking a helpless baby like that." Even as she spoke she knew she was lying, and she didn't care.
"For pity's sake," the waitress said, "the mother's defending the bastard."
"Go on, she's not?" Bobbie said, knowing how women stayed, made excuses for every behavior if they were getting it when and how they needed it.
"He's got post-traumatic syndrome," she read, "that's what the mother says, and the baby's crying set him off. I don't believe in that stuff, do you?" the waitress asked, not waiting for an answer. "Joan" was the name on her uniform.
"Kitchen'll be closing soon, Hon, if you'll be wanting something to eat."
"Little warm up on the coffee maybe, Joan, if you don't mind."
"My pleasure, should have noticed you were running low."
Nothing here seemed real in the fluorescent light.
"Open the paper these days," the waitress said, "all you see is bad news spread out all through from page one even to the comics and classifieds, not to mention sports- and how long has it been since we've had a winning team anyway- and real estate, you'd think that at least would be what you call cheerful, new starts and all, but instead what you get is sink holes swallowing up rows of homes and new developments cancelled because the landfill they're built on has been labeled, like, toxic."
"Poor planning," Bobbie said, "is at the heart of it all."
"Quiet out there, ain't it?"
"Raining, so everyone's tucked in at home."
"Seems like it. Take only a minute, and I can run through a fresh pot for you."
Until then Bobbie had been renting her stool at the counter, paying tips in her mind for each cup. Victor could've picked a better place for her to wait, someplace with real tables and good chairs, maybe even a candle on the table.
"Who you waiting for, Hon?" the waitress asked, then caught Bobbie's expression and her trembling hands gripping the cup, and she backed away. X: with two black lines of magic marker she crossed the day off the calendar, then turned around to Bobbie to say she didn't mean nothing by the question.
"Your guess is as good as mine," Bobbie said, "'cause I'm not sure I know who he is any more, which is something I'm sure you know just what I mean."
Zippers, thought Bobbie, is what I need: one to keep my mouth shut, one to unzip Victor's heart so he's on time so I don't get sick any more, one for my grave to keep it closed until I need it, and one to open the sky so I can see who or what's up there keeping us going, which was the closest she'd come to a prayer since, well, the last time Victor was late.
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