Walking into work is like any other Monday, drab lighting pulling all the dust into the sun rays. Old Mike Allen sitting on the rusted out bar stool with his grey brown beard and his over sized eyebrows, always furrowed like he's thinking real hard about something. You hear the slow crackly country music in the background behind the sound of your boss, Rick, flipping eggs in the back, cussing about this and that not being right.
Nobody comes through the door for a few hours and time is ticking by slower than a turtle race. The silverware is rolled, the coffee is fresh, sweet tea made just right, nothing left to do but sit and wait for that doorbell to ding. You plop down in a booth, put your feet up on the other side and read your book until you feel two gentle taps on your shoulder; must've been too into your book to hear the bell. Wondering why Rick didn't yell his usual "Morning sir, how's it goin' today?" Maybe you were just too swept away by the words written in the old tattered pages to notice.
You get up and apologize profusely for being so rude and walk the young man to a table in the back corner, by the window without the sun blaring through. He orders a cup of coffee and a hash platter, Mike's usual, which is funny considering he's got the same furrowed over grown eyebrows shading his brindled brown eyes.
Mike heads to work and hollers his goodbyes at Rick leaving you his usual three dollar tip under his plate and you manage a "Have a good day," as he hobbles out the door. You bring out the man's order seconds after Rick dings the order up bell and you can't help but notice the face he makes at the sight of his hash platter, like he can't wait another second to devour the whole thing. Just like old Mike Allen...
On your way back to the table to check on him you just have to ask if he's related to Mike since they have a quite a few facial expressions in common and the man chuckles a low bellowed laugh before saying "He's my dad, we get that a lot, is it the eyebrows?"
You giggle back and say "No it's the face you made when I brought you his usual order," you smile at the thought of how a father and son could be so alike and you take his cup to refill his coffee.
When you turn around he's gone, twenty dollars on the table tucked under his plate, enough for a three dollar tip and to cover his bill. The rest of your shift is dead and you count your tips wishing it wasn't.
On your way home you stop at the usual mini mart where you get a couple of fresh peaches, a box of granola cereal and some milk. You walk home and find yourself thinking about Mike's son and wishing you'd gotten his name. He was a fairly handsome guy and you begin to wonder if that's what old Mike Allen looked like in his prime. You think about him all night long, wondering what he's doing here, why you're just now meeting him after years of serving Mike on that rusty old bar stool. You can't stop thinking about his perfect jawline and his lips and the way his curly brown hair framed his face and the way his eyes dug into your soul. You caught him staring at you a few times and you shared a couple of shy smiles across the diner.
You don't turn on the tv tonight, instead you shower, extra long, shave your legs for the first time in months and decide you want to try on that uniform dress Rick used to insist you wear. He stopped trying to fight you on the dress code when you bought the yellow shirts he made for the cook who quit a few months back as long as you wore jeans he wouldn't say anything more about it.
You thank god that yellow is definitely your color as you slip into the stiff polyester fabric and zip it up the front leaving a little cleavage to support your tip wage. Not that anyone worth while comes into the diner, except maybe Mike's son. You look in the mirror admiring yourself in this old fashioned waitress uniform and for the first time in a while you think you look like a nice girl. Someone who could meet the parents and leave them thinking how innocent and loving you are.
The next morning you wake up before your alarm goes off and you feel energized, haven't woken up feeling this good in a while. You put on your uniform and look in the mirror, still looks great, but could use a little eyeliner to spruce up the amber tones in your hair. Not too much but not too little you grab your purse and head to work ten minutes early.
When you walk in it's like any other Tuesday, old Mike Allen on the bar stool over his hash platter, a couple of early birds in the front booth and a brittle old man at the table in the center of the diner sipping a cup of coffee and having a slice of pie. You say good morning to Rick and he nearly drops his spatula in disbelief. "Look at what you're wearing, was that so hard? Why after so long are you finally following my rules?" You laugh and blush a little bit as you retort with your usual, "Rick there not your rules there your suggestions, I do what I want and you're not going to fire me cause together we keep this place afloat!" You walk away and check on all your tables, Rick always lets you keep the tips from the morning customers if you take over right away.
A few more people come in every hour or so and the day is a slow kind of busy, the kind where you can't quite sit and read more than a page of a good book but you aren't running around like a chicken with your head cut off either. You keep thinking about Mike's son and you wait and wait for him to come through the door, every time you hear the bell your heart skips another beat but it's never him. Finally, ten minutes before closing time, you come out of the restrooms to find him sitting at the back table you seated him at yesterday. Face dirty from work you presume, his hair all tangled, and his eyebrows still furrowed. You can't help but smile as your heart sings a little tune. You bring him a hash platter and a cup of coffee without taking his order and he eats the whole thing occasionally glancing at you from the corner of his eye like he's not trying to let you notice, but you do and you smile every time.
As he gets out his wallet you make your way to the table and you ask his name, "Michael," he says, "Michael Jr. to be exact." The two of you sit and talk as Rick finishes cleaning the kitchen and comes out carrying broken down boxes in both arms, "Closing time!" He hollers at you as you look over at Michael and think about asking him to walk you home. "We better get going," says Michael and you grab your purse from the back and walk out the front door where Rick is waiting to lock up the diner. You don't see Michael anywhere and you feel a little sad but the conversation you had was electric and he said he'll be in again tomorrow so you don't worry about it too much.
The morning comes sooner than expected and you can't believe you've slept nine hours, you wake up with time to eat breakfast and extra time to get ready for the day. You dawn that polyester one piece and touch it up with a bit of lipstick, pale pink, you take the time to braid your hair and you look better than yesterday. Two good days in a row is a record lately and you can't help but wonder what the downfall is going to be. You stop thinking about it immediately, too afraid of the bad energy it'll draw to your new found glory. As you walk down the stairs you wave at the neighbor children and the littlest one actually waves back for the first time ever, you must not look too homeless for once.
When you get to the diner Michael is already there, finished with his platter, working on a slice of blueberry pie and a cup of coffee. He smiles at you the second he sees you and it lights a fire under your soul, you can't help but blush dramatically and smile uncontrollably. Nobody else is in the diner besides, Rick, even old Mike Allen isn't at his usual bar stool. You walk up to Michael's table and ask where his dad is today, Michael tells you he's sick and won't be in for a few days and it sparks a whole new wildfire conversation. You hang onto every word dropping out of his sultry lips and and find yourself responding elegantly without even having to think.
After about an hour or so Michael insists he should get to work but he doesn't want to. When you both get up he leans in and hugs you goodbye, your heart nearly jumps out of your chest and you have to bite your tongue to not squeal with excitement. You just can't believe how warm and toned his arms feel wrapped around you. The hug lasts almost a full minute and you briefly debate asking for another the second it's over. You watch him walk out the door and listen to the bell ding a sad tone but your smile doesn't fade in fact it stretches all the way across your face as you remember the tangy sweet scent of his jacket, the smell of metallic car parts poorly masked by old spice. You bite your lip and immediately scold yourself because you're wearing lipstick and now it's probably in your teeth, you go to the bathroom to check it out and as you come out you see Michael standing at the bar, waiting for you.
"I can't believe what I'm about to say but I can't stop thinking about you, Hope," he's nervously stuffs his hands in his pockets as he fumbles over his next few words, "will you be-would you be... maybe would you like to go to dinner with me sometime?" You can't breathe as he impatiently awaits your answer, like a scared little boy on the playground. "Yes! I mean- I'd love to, of course" the two of you plan a date and as he walks away the second time your heart pounds in your chest, you have a date with a man, a good looking man. The kind of man who holds the door for little old ladies and stacks his dishes at restaurants for the waiters to have an easy pickup. You are dumbfounded.
Friday night comes about as fast as winter goes and you can't wait to meet Michael at the Chinese Garden restaurant off Broadway Ave. He's dressed in all black, jeans and a button down with the long sleeves rolled up perfectly around his forearms. You picked a little red cocktail dress with a lace hem at the bottom and your white high tops, hair in a perfectly messy bun, lipstick to match your outfit and a touch of eyeliner. The two of you look like a young power couple from heaven in the reflection of the double glass doors.
As you walk in you see millions of jasmine flowers lining the walls, presumably fake, although the scent of fresh flowers and soy sauce coats the air. There's little tea light lamps on every table give off a soft glow, a bottle of soy sauce, two beautiful purple glasses with a vase of water, and silverware wrapped in a gold cloth napkin for each of you fill the empty spaces on the table. The host seats you in a booth at the center of the left wall, the carpet underneath is soft beneath your sneakers, fancily patterned with purple and gold wisps. Michael sits on the same side of the booth as you and slides in close, the smell of his cologne fills you with excitement and you revel in it.
You order the miso soup and Michael gets beef and broccoli, another one of your favorites, the two of you have so much in common already, what's one more thing?
You discuss your latest literary obsession and the article he read this morning about manifesting your dreams and the psychological connection of thought and action. You're in awe at the thought of how educated he is. He's so passionate about everything he talks about and you admire the way he uses his hands to express every detail.
You move on to the topic of living in New York City, what made you move here, and how you managed to build your cozy little life in the big city. Then, finally it's his turn to talk again and you listen intently focused on what appears to be the man of your dreams.
"I lived here with my parents when I was younger but when my mom left she took me along with her and we never looked back, I was offered a really great job out here and when my dad called me out of the blue I took it as a sign and decided to pick up my life in Dallas and head up here. Had I had any idea the view would be so gorgeous I would've moved a lot sooner," he sighs and winks at you with a little smirk creeping across his face. You can't help but blush and you know your cheeks must match the shade of your dress by the way he lets out a little laugh.
By the time you're done talking over your fortune cookies and comparing fortunes the host comes to the edge of the table to inform you that they are closing in ten minutes. He pays the bill and walks you all the way home, you hold hands on the subway and walking down the street, never breaking contact. By the time you get home your heart has pitter pattered down and being around Michael just feels natural and right, so you invite him up. You hold hands up the stairs and through the hallway, you manage to open the door with your free hand and kick it closed with your foot. You sit him on the couch and grab ice cream, two spoons and beer from the kitchen, never thought your lonely snacks would see the day you brought somebody home with you. As the two of you sit and talk the night away with the tv playing softly in the background, you can't stop yourself from starting to feel sleepy. You snuggle up close to him, ice cream gone, beer cans empty, stretch your feet across the couch and before you know it you're asleep in his warm embrace.
You wake up to the sound of Michael snoring softly, your head on his chest his arms delicately wrapped around you with his hands clasped to be certain he won't let go while he sleeps. Everything is perfect. He's perfect. You wiggle your way up to his cheek and kiss it gently as you pull away you whisper in his ear "I love you" thinking he's still asleep you don't expect a return when he smiles lightly and says "I love you," in a sleepy voice as he sighs and starts snoring again.
