Love Is Where You Find It

Part 15

Loretta feels different in a way, after the date. Happier. Henry promised to take her out again so she has something other than sitting on the porch with her guitar and writing songs nobody is ever going to hear to look forward to.

Maybe, she thinks, she is going to sing for him next time. He seemed so disappointed that she didn't and after giving her such a beautiful night, he deserves it.

She's tested out the songs on her kids, the only people she can sing to without getting nervous these days, and they say that they liked them but they seem to like everything she sings. Betty Sue is more critical of her now, but not when it comes to her music.

Washing dishes for hours every day somehow makes her hate it a lot less. It's strange, because it should be the other way around but she reckons that it's a coping mechanism. That and her just plain being thankful to have a job at all, because she knows that she doesn't have many job skills and even less education.

"You have to eat more," Lou comments, flipping burgers on the grill while Loretta's hands are immersed in mountains of dishwater.

"I eat," Loretta says.

"More," Lou stresses. "You're a skinny little thing."

"I always was."

It's true- the only time she was not was when she was carrying a baby. All the rich ladies seem to lament about getting back to their pre-baby weight while it happened naturally for her all four times. Maybe that's just what happens when you have to go back to working and running after a gaggle of children the day you come home from the hospital- which, for women like her, is the day after the baby is born unless something goes very wrong. They couldn't even afford for her to give birth to them really.

"Loretta?" Lou drags out, laughing softly when she jumps.

"Yes?" She turns toward him. "Did you say somethin'?"

"Nothin' that's too important."

Loretta looks back down at the dishes, humming to herself as she washes them. A few minutes go by before Myra bursts in, "I'm taking my break," she says, "Can you go out there and serve?"

It's phased as a question, but it isn't, because she can't say no. "Of course." Loretta straightens out her apron and hopes that she looks presentable enough otherwise.

There's that old man again, the one who comes every day at lunch time and takes the table at the back of the room. He never smiles and speaks as little as possible. He doesn't have to though, because he always orders the same thing- black coffee.

"Black coffee?" she asks as a formality. The man grunts at her. Loretta decides to take that as a yes. She makes her way back toward the kitchen to get the coffee. Coffee she can handle with confidence, because it's being made all day and all she has to do is pour it. When dropping off the coffee, Loretta tries for a smile. Why she doesn't know, because the person it is directed toward surely isn't going to appreciate her attempt at friendliness. He hardly even looks at her, cradles the coffee in his hands and takes slow, steady sips. Loretta wonders how anyone can consume it without so much as making a face, she's had medicine that tastes better than black coffee. Of course she doesn't even like coffee when it's loaded with sugar and milk.

Someone in Washington tried to get her to like it once- apparently a mother of four shouldn't be able to function without coffee, but she does. And now she is doing it all on her own.

When they tell her things such as 'I don't know how you do it', she'll laugh so she doesn't cry and admit that she doesn't either. It's funny how people act like it's a choice when it clearly isn't. She has to be able to do it because what would become of her kids, those babies she loves more than anything, if she couldn't?