graffiti (completed)

Twenty-Two.

Diners were made for lost souls, teenage runaways, and truckers. Any mix of the three.

The sky was black, the classic three in the morning darkness that was the break between staying up late and pulling an all nighter. I didn't need slightly watery coffee, or eggs, or waffles. I could've dealt with my hunger and stayed through the night at the motel. Instead I just checked out, and followed the neon signs until I reached some stereotypical American restaurant scene; a suspicious but delicious diner.

I tried my very best not to get a window seat, but of course, lone seaters took the tables away from the window. I picked the booth at the very corner, and just turned my body as much away from the window as I could without stretching my legs out and tripping nearby servers.

I would ask someone for a ride. Or walk to the nearest bus station to get another bus cars. It was never a good idea to ask for a ride, or hitchike. And it was extremely unlikely that I'd find a cab out here. I'd left my board so that every single thing that could've been associated with me would be gone, and the consistent conflict between being forgotten and being convienient seemed to rage on.

I stayed in this bubble, in this world of coffee refills and little questions until the sky was becoming a  pre-sunrise blue, and a red Jeep pulled into the driveway of the diner. Out came a boy with fiery hair and a simple expression, a boy I wouldn't have expected if an old southern cook showed me the entire scene in her swirling pot of gumbo.

I quickly exited to the bathroom before Ricky could enter the diner, staying for what I guessed was twenty minutes and hoping he was gone.  When I came out, however, he was sitting at the booth in front of mine, bouncing his leg and drinking his own cup of coffee. His eyes were focused out of the window, deep in thought, and I considered quickly sneaking past him. Of course, by the time I did think about this, he'd already spotted me in the reflection of the window.

"Casey."

It was the same tone he always used, stoic, serious, concerned. And it was the one everyone else had used over the past few days. I was thinking od changing it at this point.                         

I could've ran out of the place, but I hadn't payed for the meal, and  I didn't want to make a scene.

"What are you doing here?"

"Shouldn't I be asking the same question?" I said, sliding into my seat and sipping the coffee,  which was now cold.

He moved to my booth without a word, staring at the stained white table with the same faraway look as before, letting the silence thicker and thicken until I needed to break it. I didnt want to. He didnt want to.

The waitress had a short coversation with one of the chefs, the one who put the plates out to be served. His eyes were crinkled permanently, as though he always had a smile, and he nodded as he continued his work. A man at a table twisted his face in confusion as he typed on his phone, eating a slice of some dessert. Another waitress, the only other one, sauntered to the dim music on the radio as she brought the plate to another customer.

A teen, red faced, tried to hide drying tears as they picked at their meal.

"You staying at a hotel?"

"No." I avoided eye contacrt. I was telling the truth, in the fact that I wasn't staying at a hotel, but he made  everything I said feel like a lie.

"You're telling Melodie about this?"

He shook his head, an almost unoticable smile forming  at the corners of his mouth. It was gone in a flash.

The inside of the car was gray and plump, the smell of new car still lingering inside. We drove exactly how Ricky lived; in silence, windows slightly open, the world slowly awakening. He said he would give me a ride and never speak of it again, and Ricky never was the kind of person to have secret catches or loopholes in his words. The sun was just starting to rise, and only when it peeked out like a drop of gold did he turn on a song. I didn't know what it was, who made it, or what genre. I just knew it sounded beautiful.

"I did it once."

"Did what?" I turned, his face now illuminated by fresh sunlight.

"Ran away," he turned the radio down a bit, paying attention to the road, "For a week. I felt free."

I hummed. The feeling of freedom was always difficult to pinpoint; there was a thin line between freedom and simulated freedom. Sometimes, running felt like spreading your wings. And sometimes, it felt like an endless cycle.

"I realized that it wasn't going to solve anything. It isn't always about what I want, but what I need."

"Lessons you learned back in 'Nam, grandad?"

For one of the only times in my entire span of knowing him, Ricky laughed.

He turned the key in the car, engine dying down as he stepped out. All I saw ahead of me were trees.

"Where are we going?" I asked, shifting uncomfortable in the chair.

He waved his hand, sigmaling for me to follow him, "A pit stop."