Checkered Tales and Nighthawk Feathers

Duke, Blank, Worry

The diner door swings open, jostling the little brass bell above it, and swings shut. It's late; quiet. Normally, Miss Holloway would assume the visitor to be a driver stopping for coffee before a long journey, or one of the town's many busy bees grabbing a bite. Maybe even a particularly trendy teen out past their curfew, having trouble studying, needing the cozy atmospheric rattle of Miss Retro's and a slice of pie to help them cram for a test.

No, she can tell it's Duke. She doesn't know how, but his silhouette is a clear stark shape in her mind's eye, pushing through the door and making his way to the counter, which is weird because usually he calls out a greeting when he comes in.

'Hiya, Duke,' she sing-songs, 'Cup'a coffee?'

'Yeah.' His voice is uncharacteristically gruff, weighty with gravel. 'Yeah, and make it strong, please, miss.'

Sympathy surges in Holloway's chest. She spins around to face Duke, abandoning her attempt to straighten a large decorative bass guitar mounted on the wall. Worried creases line his face, shading his eyes with blotches of red and grey. His mouth is a thin, tight line. Rumpled and deflated, he looks somewhere between fed-up and kicked puppy.

'Tough day?' She gets the coffee brewing, and begins cutting him a slice of pie. Today's pie is filled with mixed berries: strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, blueberries. It's summery and decadent, sweet and juicy and a little tart, with warmth from the cinnamon and a scoop of ice cream. Duke grunts a non-answer and watches her plate up the pie with tired, wet eyes.

Miss Holloway watches him push his fork around the plate for a few seconds, then folds her arms, resting on the counter.

'Talk to me, hon.' She reaches out, tilts his chin up. 'I can read your mind, but only if you ask real nice.'

That makes him chuckle, at least, and some of the tension dissolves. He scoops up some of the berry filling and eats it, humming with both thought and satisfaction.

'I – it's just hard sometimes. These kids – there's so much good inside them, but it's like everything in the world is trying to crush it. The way some of them speak, it's like I'm talking to war vets.' He gestures emphatically with the fork, taking another bite of pie. 'I know, we've all got battles to fight, but it just isn't fair that they've got such big ones when they're so small, and I can only do so much to help. Sometimes it feels like I'm like trying to bail out a sinking ship with a teaspoon.'

'Aw, Duke.' Miss Holloway pours his coffee, then takes his other hand, rubbing her thumb over the coarse short hairs on his knuckles. 'You're an angel in this town, giving those kids the greatest gift you can: you're letting them be kids. Sometimes all you need is someone in your corner, and a little bit of hope. Just knowing that there's someone cheering them on, who believes in that little spark of good inside – that can make all the difference, don't'cha think?'

She playfully taps the tip of his nose, and he scrunches up with a big, sweet smile. God, he's cute. His eyes crinkle adorably when he smiles, no matter how hard he tries to hide it, and the tips of his ears blush before his cheeks do. He gets tongue-tied like a little kid; he tries to be suave, and only sometimes succeeds. The good and love and kindness in him radiates out, through his angelic face and his lovely voice and everything he does. She's the someone in his corner, and she makes sure he knows it every time they meet. Duke rubs the back of his neck.

'I think I just gotta take my mind off it, that's all, but it's so hard to think about anything else.' He idly toys with the remains of the pie. 'Tried reading, watching TV, nothing works. My brain just wants to keep going over the same notes over and over, like that's gonna change something. I was thinking about going to the old comedy club, the one near the Starlight, but wouldn't you know it, closed for police investigation. Open mic gone wrong. Can you believe that?'