The Beachwood [H.S.]

Scrambled Eggs with Hot Sauce

September

There's something comfortable about routine. Cool air, hitting my bare legs. Toothpaste smoothly dispensing onto my toothbrush. Warm water, forming rivers in the creases of my skin. My own fingers, working their way through the knots of my hair, pulling it tightly back into a ponytail. The click of a name tag onto my shirt.

For me, routine means a day without surprises. Routine is a day filled only of what's familiar to me, nothing more.

I had gone through my life believing routine would somehow put a wall between myself and anything that could hurt me. For that reason, I had never expected him.
︦
"Order up!"

I turned on the balls of my feet, always at the ready. Chef handed me a steaming plate of pancakes, the square pad of butter already beginning to melt down the sides.

Pushing the door of the kitchen open with my hips, I hurried out into the dining room. As the yellowed lighting hit me, I immediately put on a smile.
"Pancakes with butter," I said lightly, smiling at the customer in front of me. She was a friendly looking blonde woman, a beret atop her head.

"Thank you, darling," she said as I passed her the warm plate, returning my smile.

I had seen her here yesterday, sitting in the same booth. She had been wearing an olive green fedora the day before.

"Enjoy," I smiled widely, turning away from her table and back toward the front podium.

It was only 8 a.m. and the Beachwood Café was already busy, people of all ages and walks of life making their way in for a steaming cup of coffee and a seat at the counter.

The bell dangling above the door jingled, alerting me to a new customer.

Through the door came two men, one shorter and balding, the other young and curious looking. The older man approached the podium first, rummaging through his pockets for something.

"Good morning, how many will be dining today?" I asked, smiling my usual grin reserved for customers.

The man continued to search through the pockets of his jacket, paying no attention to my question. The man behind him looked up at me, a faint smile playing across his lips.

"Two, please," he answered. My gaze lingered over him for a moment, realizing his strong British accent and laid-back stature. He had dark brown curls, accented by a pair of sunglasses propped on his head. He was the kind of obviously attractive that you notice before anything else.

Looking away from him, I reached for two plastic-covered menus, and returned my gaze to the older man. He had apparently located his item of need, a small packet of wet wipes.

"Follow me," I smiled, causing him to finally meet my gaze.

He nodded, making the light beaming from the ceiling bounce off his balding head.

As I lead the two men towards an empty table, I was heavily aware of the younger mans' proximity to me. I involuntarily stood up a bit straighter, and finally set the menus down on a bare table.

"Harry, wait!" the older man insisted.

The younger man, apparently Harry, went to sit down, but immediately stopped in his tracks.

Baldy quickly ripped open the pack of wipes, removing one, and began to wipe off the menu and table surface.

"Ken, for the love of God," Harry sighed, lightly pushing the man's wipe-bearing hand down.
Harry took a seat and pulled the untouched menu towards him.