Third Rate Romance
Third Rate Romance
Oh, how she hated gingham. Gingham reeked of home and cloying coziness, forcing a cheer so unnatural her stomach clenched imagining it. It felt like too-sweet syrup, sticking to the edges of a smile that showed too many teeth and a slow, Southern greeting that hung an exaggerated 'hon' at the end.
The waitress wore a gingham short apron, secured around her ample hips and straining to define a waist long-since disappeared under years of fried chicken and white gravy dinners. Blonde hair was stacked into a massive pile on top of her head, threatening to topple over at any moment. She blew a bleached strand away from her mouth.
"Coffee?" she asked Susannah in a flat voice. Her eyes flickered lazily to the side, following the meandering path of a fly.
Susannah nodded once.
"Black, no cream or sugar," she said. "Please."
The waitress' pen hovered motionless over her pad. "Would you like the Monday special? It's a Western omelette with pancakes."
"No, thanks. Just some scrambled eggs. And three strips of bacon."
The pad disappeared without ever meeting the pen and the waitress gathered the menu, bustling back into the kitchen, soft rubber soles scuffing against the tile floor.
Susannah sighed, staring out the dirty window, wondering if the brown haze against the early morning sun was pollution or scum on the glass. The light had not reached the right angle to see her reflection on the surface, for which she was silently thankful. She was prone to the same vanities of all women, perhaps more so since the passing of her fortieth birthday. Her skin wrinkled in more places than not, blemishes faded under a pancake of textured powder makeup. Lips thinning and bleeding out of their once defined lines were wistfully drawn in place by a red lipstick that had once looked provocative but now struck her as garish.
Surrendering to the sudden flash of resentment, she fished a napkin from her purse and scrubbed it against her lips viciously. The red smears and flakes on the napkin brightened her mood momentarily, but as quickly as it came, the burst of energy left her. She crumpled the paper in her hand, dropping it listlessly on the table. Her hand hung limply in the air.
"Coffee," the waitress's voice interrupted. Susannah started at the clink of a chipped porcelain mug against the surface of the table.
A plate with pale, runny eggs slid in front of her. Two of the strips of bacon were black on the edges, curling and crisping until the bare suggestion would break hard little pieces off. She stared at the breakfast, too tired or uncaring to muster a protest. Instead she gave a thank you to the waitress, who left without acknowledging it and headed back into the kitchen. A tentative sip of the coffee proved surprisingly good. She scalded her tongue with the second taste.
"Excuse me," a male voice said. "Can I sit here?"
She looked up into muddy brown eyes in the center of an uninteresting face. The man's hair was not stringy or scarce, but definitely fading at the temples, and his nose was crooked to one side. He stood neither tall nor short, but an average height Susannah guessed to be a few inches above her own. There was nothing extraordinary about him, but something about this incredible blandness appealed to her at the moment.
"Of course," she answered, gesturing to the booth across from her. He slid inside, holding a rolled-up newspaper in one hand and a cupful of coffee in the other.
"Enjoying your meal?" he asked.
The plate remained untouched, but Susannah answered, "It's good" anyway. They continued talking, though neither showed much interest in the conversation, awkwardly attempting to fill the gap between recognizing a shared loneliness and assuaging it. The look in the man's eyes was not one Susannah had seen for three years now, but it was unmistakable, familiar to her even after so long. It felt like wishful thinking. She remembered this, too, the sudden impulse to do something, anything, though the last time she had felt this way was in high school.
The stilted conversation continued, until some signal passed between them, and they both edged out of the tight diner booths. The parking lot had five cars in it, spread out with large, gaping spaces inbetween. One of her shoes caught on an empty glass bottle and sent it rolling across the asphalt. With dim realization, she noticed that the dingy window had not been solely responsible for the sky's dreariness; the clouds were loose and sprawling, casting a grey tint over the sun.
She followed him in her car to the local motel, nestled on the very edge of town. A flashing sign declared "Vac cy", two of the letters burned out. She parked, waiting outside as he went inside to get a room. The motel walls were painted beige with teal trim, and she leaned against one of them after checking it for gum or worse.
"Give me the key," she said when he walked over. He handed it over without protest, trailing after her silently as they found room 126. The lock was an old-fasioned one, a manual piece of hardware instead of the electronic card-keys modern hotels made use of. It was an older place, she thought absently, or maybe just a cheap one.
She turned abruptly, nearly colliding into him.
"I've never done this kind of thing before," she lied.
He gave her a half-smile that had a tinge of boredom in it.
"Neither have I," he replied, and she knew he was lying too. The fact did not bother her as much as she thought it would.
They kissed like it was a formality and undressed, slipping under the covers. She never pretended with him, never felt the need to.
Afterwards, he kissed her and mumbled, "I love you". It reminded her of an actor paid to do a commercial for something he had never heard of, reciting the script without ever knowing what he was selling. She decided to ignore it, watching the blinking red numbers on the alarm clock next to the bed and the seams of light seeping in from under the curtains. He rolled to the side, fishing for his pants and she heard the rustle of clothing as he dressed.
ENDING 1
The door clicked shut. Her eyes slid closed and she realized, laughing with sick irony, that the bedspread was gingham.
ENDING 2
The door clicked shut. Her eyes slid closed and she grabbed the bedspread, pulling it under her chin, thinking, Thank God it isn't gingham.
So two things I'm especially looking for, one of which do you think the diner needs to be described more, and two, which ending do you like best.
Any other feedback, of course, is very appreciated. :))