Reticulated

One More Day, One More Night

"One more night, God I've had to fight
to keep my line of sight on what's real.
One more day, I fear I've lost my way,
I don't know how to say what I feel.
Someone better hurry I'm all alone.
And I keep breaking down,
breaking down, you know?
No one ever taught me to be on my own.
And I keep breaking down
breaking down, you know?"

- One More Day, One More Night, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers

Tim's been in this town for five days now. Five whole blessedly uneventful days. Normally he'd have moved on by now, but day by day a sense of weariness has begun to seep into his bones to join the increasing chill of fitful mornings. Every place he stops at invites him to linger just a little bit longer than the last. These places try to cajole him into meeting the locals and learning the secrets of hidden nooks and crannies surrounded by brick and moss. Each time he packs up his car, he seems to move slower and slower.

He hates to acknowledge this behavior. It means admitting that some days he'd like for nothing more than to find a place to settle down in – a routine and a job.

He never thinks about finding people to spend his time with. The idea of socializing makes his skin crawl – not because the idea itself is unpleasant, but because of the possible repercussions his prolonged presence could cause.

Tim doesn't like thinking about how old he is getting or how hard his body is taking his chosen lifestyle, with its lack of proper nutrition, lack of sleep, lack of a bed molded to his body shape. He fears the day that he refuses to move on. He fears winding up in a place like this, with a tight-knit community, frequent get togethers, Sunday church meetings, and "Hey-a Tim, how you doin'? Want to have dinner with me and the Missus tonight?" There is nothing for him in a place like this.

The sky is pregnant with the promise of rain. As he looks up into the sky the clouds, threateningly dark, move at a faster pace than he can keep up with, especially since his bad leg tends to act up in any sort of weather at all. The sunshine that blessed the roofs of this community since he'd arrived has disappeared, leaving shadows in the corners of buildings Tim hadn't even noticed before. It sets him on edge.

As the first droplets begin to fall, he makes his way into the diner (which he hasn't failed to grace with his presence at least once a day) and slides into what he has subconsciously started calling "His Booth."

Yesterday some asshole was sitting in it during breakfast. Tim had to resist the urge to glare at him the whole time he was there from where he sat at the bar, since he refused to sit in any of the other booths.

As he shakes small droplets of water from his hair, he notices the redheaded waitress lying on the countertop of the bar, sprawled ungracefully, her arms sticking straight up into the air, typing on her phone. He shoots her a glance, before considering skimming the menu, stopping himself as he remembers that he's already tried everything this place has to offer at least once. He gives her a moment to finish what ever oh-so-pressing thought she has that must be conveyed right this minute, before rubbing the stubble on his jaw and clearing his throat. He can only go so long without coffee, after all.

She doesn't move.

Biting his lip, he tries again. "Miss?" he asks tentatively.

She starts, turning towards him, her eyes wide and body tense. She didn't notice him arrive.

"Sorry!" She rights herself, sliding the phone into the pocket of her frilly pink apron, and drops to the floor. "They took the bell off the door - " she explains as she circles the countertop, grabbing his much needed caffeine and bringing it to him " – not that I can really hear it anyway – but its better than nothing. Some kid was dicking arou- I mean playing around with it, I guess."