Damn.
Genny glanced at her petite Rolex watch; her leg was shaking, bobbing up and down beneath the table. She had a headache.
She slid her perfectly perfect white teeth to the side, bit her fire engine red thumb nail and glanced through the flawlessly luminous lashes out the window to her left. It was one of those funny situations, one of those awkward life defining moments, and she was having trouble swallowing.
He wasn't late. She was early...
For once.
"Shit." She whispered under her breath, moved her sapphire gaze to the salt and pepper and Sweet-n-Low and sugar and Splenda—tastes like sugar 'cause it's made of sugar— and dessert menu and ketchup and mustard and napkin container cluttering the center of the table. Greasy fingerprints smudged the table-top and black napkin holder.
This is—she nodded her head as she tried to convince herself, endeavored to suppress the flight instinct—the right thing to do. She sniffled, then cringed. Grease, it seemed, had saturated more than just the cheep Formica; the diner reeked of bacon fat and lard, cholesterol laden eggs with oily cheese and of course biscuits with real sausage gravy.
Her stomach lurched.
Hastily, fumbling, Genny pulled a napkin from the greasy container and covered her mouth, using the thin paper as a filter of sorts. She closed her eyes, forced herself to swallow and breathe through her mouth. She didn't know what she was doing. What if she didn't recognize him? It had, after all, been three months. What if the copious cups of hunch punch paired with the smoke—wacky tabacky—infested Frat house had made him more alluring than was his actual self, like one of those fun house mirrors.
The truth was, she didn't really know what he looked like. He might—she thought with horror—already be in the diner. He could be the skeevy trucker at the counter or the very nearly toothless cook, or the werewolf resembling, butt-crack showing-
"Are ya gunna order, er what?"
Genny's inky lashes fluttered and her eyes lifted to the woman's cream—or was it yellow? —waitress uniform; affixed to her breast pocket amidst mysterious stains of brown and green was a name tag reading Roberta. She raised her gaze further. The middle aged woman's front teeth were abnormally long, her eyes too small for her face and her eyebrow—because, in earnest, the woman had a singular eyebrow—was pinched downward in the center. She looked like an angry rabbit.
Genny shook her head, the napkin still covering her nose and mouth. "I- not yet, just more coffee please, and make sure it's decaf."
Roberta scowled, her long frontal pinchers dug into her bottom lip. "What you gettin' at, missy? You've been sitting there fer halfnhour-"
The terse jingle of the diner door drew Genny's attention from the rabbit—er, Roberta—and to the tall blonde who'd just entered. She gulped, swallowing more air than saliva, as her eyes widened in surprise.
It was him.
She blinked once to make sure he wasn't an illusion, and much to her dueling mortification and relief found that his figure had not disappeared. She stared at his profile, Romanesque nose, angular jaw, sun kissed tan. His head turned away from her, obviously scanning the diner, which gave her a second to acquaint herself with his impressive stature, the plain white t-shirt, the dark blue jeans. She lifted her eyes just as his swung in her direction, met, and held hers.
She didn't remember his eyes being so blue... so tremendously blue.
Suddenly, he was moving. She lowered the napkin to her lap. Never releasing her gaze, he crossed to her with fluid, careless steps. He was rougher than she expected, all sharp angles, rigid lines, at least two days unshaven. She'd assumed since they'd met at a fraternity party he would be more preppy, more Happy Days and less Rebel Without a Cause.
