Sacred Ghost-Gods

1

Being outside during mid-April meant shedding the winter layers and donning practical summer clothing, which all consisted of promiscuous and rather skin-showing attire. Donny would have much rather gotten dressed in those skinny jeans she bought at Hot Topic last year, that were awkwardly baggy around the knees now, and her favorite Portland, Oregon-advertised puller-over hoodie that her friend back in California had once given her as a belated and apologetic birthday gift. The apology was forgiven and the sweater worn until frayed at the hem.

Instead, a favorable folkloric tee-shirt was tugged on and a pair of blue-jean shorts were buttoned around the hips, the fly zipped up. Donny wore no socks as she slipped on a red pair of Converse. She pulled at the back of the shoes to fit them on completely. Wearing them bare-footed wasn't an entirely sensible thing to do, as the edges tended to rub and leave aching blisters, but Donny wanted to get out and explore what she could before her father called her in for dinner.

The patience of the day had led to the encore of the season's heliolatry, an unneeded practice of the heat. Once outside, sweat had already started to accumulate at the base of Donny's neck and above her upper lip. Having bangs was a stylistic yet regretful decision that had been chosen with the nonsensical desire for longer hair, which made them stick to her forehead from the sultriness of the preprandial stroll.

"The ennui," she sighed, logy from the sun and the ghost of hunger that began to stir within the pit of her stomach.

I should search for a place to eat, Donny thought. She took her phone out of her back pocket and turned it on, making a backwards L gesture to unlock it. Thumbing through her applications, she found the one labeled 'Maps' and opened that one. She typed fast-food places into the search engine and awaited her listed results.

It wasn't much of a fast-food restaurant as it was a pizzeria, something in which Donny wasn't very convinced in entering alone. Nino's Diner looked presentable enough in the images gallery, and the street-view seemed rhapsodic enough for what could only mean a piffle exchange with the waitress. So Donny inhaled from her mouth and exhaled through her nose, because to aver her composure through something of an innate sang-froid would be very helpful. She was a gauche and nervous thing when it came to the social polish of being human.

She texted her father that she'd be getting something to eat instead of having dinner with him. His response was simple: alright. Donny knew that he would probably be preoccupied with work at the shop, so the preprandial warning was more of the effect of not bothering.

Walking the thirteen minutes it took to get to Nino's Diner, Donny thought about what sort of people she would meet during her summer visit. Would any of the girls be the malarkey type, who went on and on about clothes and boys? How were the boys--beamish and charming, or were they nothing but for all their spondulicks and Sperry Top-Sider deck shoes? She supposed that character judgement would have to wait until she personally conversed with the locals.

Frivolous was the group of teenagers who, by their means of enticement and complete lack of coordination, nettled their way past Donny when they'd exited the diner through the front. Swallowing her nostomania, she shouldered open the door and was welcomed to the pungent scent of cooked dough and the unsimmered blend of tomato sauce, minced garlic, dried oregano and basil. The Killers played throughout the entire restaurant, "This River Is Wild" smothered by the cacophony of youthful voices ricocheting off in every part of the place. There was an empty booth by a window near the back.

A waitress, short and with a rather tousled hairdo that consisted of countless colorful bobby-pins, came up to Donny, a laminated menu tucked in the nook of her elbow as she gripped its edge. A plastic Nino's employee name tag pinned on the left side of her apron read Blue S. in blocky lettering. Blue, Donny thought. What a unique name.