Open to Closed

She smiled so sweetly I thought it might be a sarcastic counter offensive. 

‘And what might that be?’, she added, honest curiosity replacing default cynicism, it seemed to me. 

‘Another IPA, and fifteen minutes of your time.’ We have lift-off. I pushed the Ben to her side of the table. 

Whomever the guy was that walked into the diner, cigarette dangling off his lip and Seahawks cap on backwards, had effectively destroyed the launch as she immediately went to grab an order that had apparently been phoned in. Regardless, I felt the pleasant flow of endorphins find their way to every nerve ending in my body. 

Upon the completion of the food pickup she pulled another IPA and walked that walk again towards my table where I sat pretending to be busy with an important text communication. Very gently she sat the frosty pint glass in front of me. 

‘I get off at ten, what’s your name?’  I have no idea why I should disguise myself and lie, being 200 miles from home, in a strange bar and in negotiations with a girl whom I would marry without even knowing her name, but I did. 

‘Cool, Bob.’

She blew air from her nose and said that was her Dad’s name, too. Amazing I said, ‘Dad a fisherman?’. 

‘Was.’ 

‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’ Now I feel like shit, what did Col. Jessup say in A Few Good Men, “well aren’t I the fucking asshole?”. 

A flustered couple obliviously walks in and sits at a table by the window. She, I cannot believe I don’t even know her name yet, greats them by name. Small town I think condescendingly. When the guy answers back by saying ‘hi Sandy’, retro-rockets fire. 

She takes their order, the usual I am guessing, and shouts it to the cook who I have seen on his phone all the while I have been in the diner. Where I remain in heavy flirtation mode with the waitress whose name I have just serendipitously discovered. 

She sets their table, fills their drink order, a Bud Light and a coke, spins and heads back towards my table. She is on fire. She sees that I am again one sip from E, and askes about another. 

’No, I’m good, but thanks Sandy.’ How did you………? 

‘I’m in105 across the street, I have some work to do for tomorrow, so I’ll see ya later, right?’ 

‘I think so.’ She is leaving room for an excuse. I have seen this card played a thousand times. 

‘I don’t bite’, I say, ‘plus I am genuinely a nice guy.’  I finish my beer and stand to go, leaving the hundred dollar bill on the table. She has been summoned to the counter by the cook to pick up the hot meals and deliver them to the hungry (or bored) customers. 

I am putting my jacket on, pulling my hoodie over my stocking cap and moving slowly towards the huge wood door. I turn my head to smile a good-bye and see her watching me as I go. 

She keeps her eyes on mine, and smiles. 

I glance up at the nautical clock above the counter. Twenty to ten.

She moves to the window and flips the neon sign from “Open” to “Closed”.