I n d o м ι т a в l e

(25)

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"We are flawed creatures, all of us. Some of us think that means we should fix our flaws. But get rid of my flaws and there would be no one left."

— Sarah Vowell

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{Chapter: 25}

Unedited ✖

{ A S P E N M O N T G O M E R Y }

The quirky diner reminds me of something you'd see in one of those old-westerns, the saloon type of design with mostly shades of dark brown covering the interior. The swinging doors leading into the small, curious space with the sign Jeff's Grub on the front also creates the allusion that you've just jumped right into an episode of Gunsmoke.

My father was not impressed, which made the environment all the more enjoyable for me.

My father sits stiff as a stone in the seat apposite of the two-persons table we're sat at in the very middle of the buzzing restaurant. It's surprisingly busy, and supposedly the best hamburger place in town, although I thought the sign was a bit suspicious.

Describing food as grub is something I'm not well acquainted with, but I could get used to it, especially if every time I used the word grub my father would shiver and make a face like he is now; nose wrinkled, eyes narrowed and face scrunched up like he's just smelt something awful. It's mildly entertaining.

"Hello, ya'll. My names Willa and I'll be your server for the mornin'." A chipper southern voice cuts through the noisy room.

A women in her late forties is perched beside our table, died red hair pulled up into a large bun with a bandanna wrapped around her head and her face caked in rainbow colored eye shadow, sticky gloss the color of a red apple layering her lips. I find that the look fits her and I give her a friendly smile. My father grunts, ever the environmental buzzkill.

"What can I start ya'll off with, then?" She asks politely, blue eyes grinning back at me.

"Were ready to order. I'll take the number three meal with macaroni and fries and a large sweat-tea." I say, already licking my lips in anticipation.

She nods, jotting down my order before turning to my father who intentionally takes his sweet time thinking it over before settling with the most expensive thing on the menu. I roll my eyes.

Although I'm not surprised. He seems so out of place inside this kind of atmosphere. His gray slacks and white dress shirt stands out midst all the bustling people who are dressed in wranglers and holy shirts, grease stains and all.

This place is somewhere my father would never be caught dead eating at, and to think what all his wealthy friends back home would say if they knew. I roll my eyes again at the absurd thought. Bunch of rich nobodies.

"Alrighty, I'll be right out with your order. Do ya'll want some appetizers to tide you over til' then?" Willa's friendly pitched voice asks.

"Yes, please." I say.

"Biscuits or bread sticks?"

"Both." My father mutters, do distracted staring distastefully down at the stain on the table to even look at her.

I hand her both our menu's before she trots off, leaving us to mingle between one another though neither of us seem in the mood to talk.

The tension is still thick from our last encounter and honestly, it was a struggle even showing up to speak with him. I know what he's going to say and I don't see the point wasting my time hearing something I already know.