Love letters...

Love letters written on a restaurants meal order ticket.

*

6:58 am
The love letter began.

Two old men sat in their greasy work clothes at bright red booths while sipping black coffee, as they talked about war. Of course it wasn't the ongoing war in Iraq that they were talking about. [ That would be too controversial of a conversation to have in this little bible belt town.] Instead, it was the Vietnam war that they spoke of. Quite a boring conversation if you ask me, but bits and pieces of it were interesting, especially the parts about the older mans brother, who went to war as a well respected level headed man, and came home seriously fucked up in the head. It was fun to sit and listen to them talk on and on, reminiscing about old memories that they had almost forgotten.

Uneasy eyes glared their way in disrespect, as a young couples child shared his first steps with the waitress nearby who was making faces at the child as she rolled up silverware in creamy white fabric napkins. A man sat in the corner booth talking on a cheap cell phone that had to of come out when cell phones were first invented. He grumbled into the phone that he didn't want spaghetti for dinner, and that if his wife was making it, she better make just one serving because he wouldn't be home for it. A young girl with long multi-colored hair sat clad in black, writing love letters onto meal order tickets. To whom the letter was to, one wouldn't know.

Black coffee mixed with creamer and sugar, a plate of salted tomatoes and a cup of steamed rice were a young waitresses meal for the day. Some crash diet that she had spoke of many days before; but to my understanding she did it just to please her boyfriend who said she needed to lose the extra weight she had gained while being pregnant with his baby (which she had lost due to him getting pissed off one night and kicking her in the stomach during a fight).

7:30 am
“Barbara” or so I will call her, comes in to the diner every morning at 7:30. Not 7:29, not 7:31, but exactly 7:30 am. She walks in, picks the middle booth by the window, sets her coat in the seat beside her and orders a glass of sprite with no ice, (preferably hot sprite if available) burnt bacon and biscuits and gravy. She's a younger lady, probably in her early 40’s. She sits by herself everyday, never even speaking to anyone accept for the waitress, and after a while of coming in, all she had to say was, “Just give me my regular” and then the conversation would end. I often sat across the diner from her in a spot where she wouldn't notice me staring at her. She was so fascinating though. I wondered if she had any family. Does she like watching TV while she works out? Does she moan while having sex, or does she even have sex? So many thoughts and daydreams floated through my head as I watched her dip her long pale fingers inside her pop glass.

30 minutes later she was gone. Her perfume floated through the air as I walked by her booth sticking my nose up in the air and taking in the sweet aroma of jasmine and lavender. When no one was around, I sat at her booth and pretended I was her. Ordering food the way she orders hers, staring out the window watching the cars drive by the way she did. And for a second I got caught up in it and forgot that I needed to get back to work.

So I got up and walked into the kitchen, washing my hands and putting my apron back on, and going back to work as the cook in this cute little retro diner; so that I could get to know more people, who would never get to know me.