Eventually, her compassion wins out. Her eyes glow, forming wrinkles underneath. Her lip twitches, but she’s trying to fight her smile.
The time of judgment passes, we are about to meet the second phase, scolding.
Three.
Two.
One…
“You know better, Rory. Next time call me over, okay?” Her voice was stern. “We can call the cops and get them involved or something.”
The ‘or something’ part is all that registered.
Alma’s restaurant is barely scraping by every month as it is. The rise in production costs and fewer and fewer people wanting to come out to have a sit-down meal. Everyone opting for the easiness of having it delivered. The profit margins have narrowed the last couple of years.
There is no way she could afford to draw extra negative attention to her place. Turningpayingcustomers away.
Plastering a smile on my face, I reassure her that next time will be different. “Scout’s honor, boss lady.” I cross my heart for good measure. Even if I am lying to myself. I wouldn’t ever want to be the reason that Alma’s business closes.
She relents, patting my hand, and opens the cooler to scoop some ice cream. After dumping chocolate into the glass, she puts it under the machine for mixing.
Setting the glass down between us, Alma levels me with a stare. “You’re still not a hundred percent forgiven, so don’t think otherwise.”
I nod, leaning over and grabbing the cherry by the stem, plucking it between my teeth. The events of today forgiven as soon as she opens the cooler.
I give her puppy-dog eyes for good measure.
“All right, all right, calm down with the sparklers. You’re forgiven.” We both laugh. Alma has always been a sucker for my light-gray eyes.
She has the silent treatment; I have my eyes.
She touches my cheek, now chilled from touching the ice cream. Her cheeks crease around the wrinkles on her face, eyes gleaming in amusement. The years of hard work she’s put into running this diner have finally started to wear on her face.
She heads to the kitchen to grab some leftover fries from the earlier rush, setting them down between us. Both of us dipping a fry into the sweet liquid.
Our relationship is a lot like this unusual concoction. Her sweet to my salty. We bring out the best in each other. A working system.
I mess up, Alma scolds me and tells me to do better, we share a shake, some fries, go home, and forgive. Simple. If only life could stay that way forever.
After we finish our food, we clean up the diner, readying it for tomorrow.
I clock out, hang my apron on the hook, and head toward the front door. Checking my book bag, I pull out a twenty I see tucked in the side pocket.That wasn’t there this morning.I place it back in the register before walking home.
The lights are out, the trailer quiet. Just how I like it.
Opening the door, the metal groans on its hinges as it’s widened. It’s sore from its job too.
Kicking off my shoes, I go to the fridge, pulling it open. All that’s left is a can of soda, some baking soda, and an open can with black mold growing up the side. Questioning how long ago that was even bought, I close the fridge.
Not bothering to look in the cabinets because I know it will be a similar situation.
Deciding I’m not that hungry anyway after the treat at Alma’s, I take a quick shower and climb into bed. The sugary sweetness still coating my tongue.
My hand reaches under my bed, grabbing for the nearest book and flicking on the side lamp, casting my room in a dim yellowed glow.
Silence my company.
Doesn’t bother me. The being alone, that is. The isolation I’d take any day over Lillian and the complications she brings.