She has a pretty face, – but crooked somehow like she was in a terrible accident, and the scars have healed beautifully.
Phlegmy voices rumble out polite requests for more coffee!
– more coffee!
… and a, check please!
She pirouettes behind the counter deftly pouring Sanka into sturdy, bone-white cups; pausing just long enough with each of us, – smiling just long enough to make us feel a little bit human
My hands hurt
We call each other “Hand”
And definitely not “good buddy”
… and my hands hurt
I tap a Lucky out of the pack, and even though it feels like I’m wearing boxing gloves I manage to flip out my Zippo – and spark the flame open
To my left there is a flannel clad Buddha named Bubba talking about his hemorrhoids and the emaciated Prince Siddhartha to my right is telling a Cajun about his stomach problems …
I have to put my attention back on my hands, – because if I gaze at anyone for too long they start to look like amphibians
I start laughing
I have never been late for an appointment, – I’ve never been in a wreck, and I’m thinking, “I’m really in trouble here”
Thinking, – “Just three hundred more miles, and I’ll be in Harrisburg”
“Six more hours”, I keep telling myself; when suddenly a coolness touches my wrist …
I look up and am captivated by the waitresses shimmering leopard frog face
She props an elbow on her off kilter hip, indicates the steaming, black contents of her glass pot – and says, “ain’t no more of this gonna do you no good Hand”
“You forget that load of yours
You forget that load, and get yourself some sleep”