Sleep Is Death

Disillusioned

Ethan and I woke up around six, and after getting ready for work, we got in his car and traveled to Miner's Diner for breakfast. It was so early the clouds were touching the ground and not many people were out and about, making the already desolate town seem abandoned.

We found his usual booth and sat, waiting for our menus. I rested my arms on the table and admired the homey, yet antique decor. That train chugged along the tracks, and steam rushed into the dining area from the kitchen whenever someone would step in or out.

"So, how're you feeling about your first day at Pine Hills," Ethan asked me. He sat across from me in a snow-blue and white button-up tucked into khaki chinos. He was wearing his best suit because they assigned him to cover a story in the mountains.

"I'm so excited I could explode," I said with a straight face and a flat tone. I knew I was just cleaning toilets and dumping trash, unlike him and the others. Of course, I wouldn't have complained because, at the time, it was better than nothing. "I'm so excited to see how well bleach and fabuloso peel off gunk."

"That's the spirit!" He gently nudged my wrist with the back of his hand and I playfully rolled my eyes. They landed on the waiter I'd met days prior: Milton. He serviced a table of old men by the exit, lifting stacked plates of barely eaten food.

Though there were around five men, none bothered to stack or tidy their dishes. They instead sat back in their booth and watched him struggle to organize everything.

"Word of advice," Ethan said, and I pulled my attention off the scene as one of them gave him a smug grin. Ethan was leaning forward like what he wanted to tell me was for our ears only, so I sat forward as well. "If Hank Fischer walks into the bathroom, just know he's heading for the handicap stall. It always clogs afterward," he said, and I shrivled my mouth up to my nose, "so I'd just take the out-of-order sign in there with the cleaning cart."

I groaned in disgust, then shook my head at the image. I told him, "I hardly remember our boss' name. How would I know who Hank Fischer is?"

"Well," he said, dragging the vowel with his head tilted and eyebrows raised to his widow's peak. "He has a brown comb-over, blotted skin, hairy arms, and a stomach the size of a woman in labor." I narrowed my eyes at him. "Honestly, if you see him, you'll know. He's the only person who sweats in eighty-degree weather."

A waitress approached our table with two menus and a smile. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a sock bun that sat at the nape of her neck, but curtain bangs framed her large forehead.

"Hi, welcome to Miner's Diner." She handed over the menus. As she continued speaking, I looked around the restaurant of only a few patrons with my eyebrows drawn in, drowning out her voice. I was so sure that I'd run into Milton again, and when I saw him clearing the empty booth where the old men sat, I felt disappointed.

"Cady, this is my friend Helen." Ethan gestured to me with one hand. He sat comfortably with the other arm across the top of his seat, and the hand he used fell onto his lap. "Helen, this is my friend Cady. She went to school with me, Amy, Angela, Megan, and Tyler."

"Nice to meet you," I said, extending a hand to shake hers. She took my palm in her and gave an even bigger smile.

"You don't sound like you're from here." I opened my mouth to tell her where I was from, but Ethan beat me to it.

"She's from South Carolina!" I stared out of the corner of my eye at his enthusiastic tone. He spoke like a parent bragging about their child graduating from an Ivy League college.

"Ah, that makes sense," she said, nodding. "We get a few transplanties every now and then, and I can easily tell them from one of us." I narrowed my eyes at that word, but nodded to show that I was listening. "I suppose with you it's not hard to tell you're not from here. Your hair and accent sort of give it away."