Chicago Diner

I walked into the local dinner upon arrival. Although not Rhonda’s, all diners filled me with a sense of belonging.

I ordered a black coffee and observed the young woman who brought it over. She had a long dark braid running down her back and poured the coffee in a fluid motion almost like a dance. I saw the steam creeping out the top so I fell back into the cushion of the booth. I felt the character of the diner through the words etched into the side of the booth. I began tracing them with my finger when the bell chimed for the door.

As soon as they walked in, I felt a tension. The man leading the way wore denim jacket and pants and held his hand close to his pocket. His dark features met in a scowl, and his confidence seemed to make him larger than he actually was.

Behind him was a girl. Her nose was bridged with freckles, and her light face seemed hollow as it stared ahead. There was a loss of innocence in the way she folded her arms like a shield across her chest. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old although the man in front couldn’t have been younger than 25.

The man went to the counter and began rambling about how their car broke down on the way to see their family. He insisted on a free meal while they wait for the car repair since the auto man had his wallet. The girl continued to stare into the distance at an undefined point.

The waitress with the braid surveyed their faces for signs of truth, and finding none she pointed at the sign resting on the counter that read “Paying Customers Only.” Her eyes searched the young girl's face waiting for a plea of help, but the girl gave none.

After a moment of pause, the man grabbed the girl by the wrist and they left as quickly as they appeared.

I inched closer to the window and watched them get into a Ford Mustang and drive away.

My anger overpowered the coffee as it scorched the back of my throat.