Slate Gray

Chapter 17.2: Ace Slate

By the time we reach our table, the food has arrived, along with four more late night diners. Two men and two women. One of the women sits at the counter with Tuxedo, chatting amiably. Maybe his wife?

The other woman is posh and old, around seventies, and the two men appear to be her adult twin sons, both big and dense in more ways than one. Perrin cocks her head when she spots them in the last booth, as if trying to decide where she knows her from.

But who cares about some old lady when French Toast is present? Thick and fluffy with a dusting of powder sugar coating both the bread and lavish heap of strawberries, it's a thing of beauty.

"Did you defeat the Siths?" Terry asks, already seated, pillowy eggs balanced on a toasted slice of sourdough. He's removed his jacket to roll up the sleeves of his flannel and my stomach does a pathetic little flip at the corded forearms.

"STHs," I correct, busying myself with my silverware to avoid looking at him, with his dumb face and even dumber eyeholes.

"Hey, Scary Terry," Perrin jeers. "Pass the syrup?"

He lowers the toast. "You heard that, huh?"

Her face splits into the biggest, shit-stirring grin. "Sure did."

"How do you know those guys?" I ask, grouchily cutting into my French Toast. But then I take my first bite and almost blackout with pleasure. It's ridiculous: chewy, sweet and nutty. Easily one of the best FT's I've ever had.

"They were a few grades above me in high school." Handing my sister the sticky, glass container, he nods at Curly Hair. "I played football with Ethan. Led my team in tackles for three years straight, hence the name. Guess they're all back in town for Christmas."

Perrin snickers as she drowns her pancakes in liquid sugar. "The only football term I know is 'tightend'." But right before she digs in, she slams her fork down and spears our quiet, fruit-cup-eating father with an accusatory glare. "Ok, what is wrong with you?"

Dad halts mid-nibble, complexion closer to the slices of kiwi than the banana. "Nothing."

"Bullshit." Slanting forward, she scours him for clues. "Are you concussed?"

"No," he says at the same time I say, "Maybe."

"Let me see your pupils." Jabbing two fingers towards hers, she clicks her tongue when he lowers his glasses. "Damn it, Dad. One's a saucer and the other's a dinner plate. Why didn't you say something?"

He tries to soothe her with, "I didn't want to worry you." It's ineffective.

Angrily stabbing the plate, she addresses Terry. "You see this? This is what happens when Reed goes off without me. Reed-percussions."

He sniggers and it sounds authentic, but Dad and I share a long-suffering look, refusing to acknowledge that shameful pun.

But my sister's mood also changes the instant she eats. "Whoa, didn't expect that," she mumbles, snagging a piece of fatty, crispy bacon from the pile before her and ripping off the top with the ferocity of a mongoose. "Son of a bitch. This is stupendous!"

"Language," scolds our father.

Ignoring him, she pokes me in the ribs. "How's yours, Ace of Spades?"

My feedback takes the form of an enthusiastic thumbs up cuz some of us don't speak with our mouths full.

"Yeah, chef's killing it tonight." Terry has finished his eggs and begun cutting into the flaky biscuits and heavenly scented gravy. "Maybe he took a cooking class? Or dropped some Molly?"