Cafe Everyday: Day 108
Mexican scramble with chorizo and potatoes. Lots of Tobasco. Mimosas, biscuits, coffee.
Saturday I would have expected to be a dead day. Take the weekends off like a regular Joe Lunchpail, because Traci's morning treks would be in similar suspension.
"There you go thinking again," my stepfather would say, "and screwing everything up."
I was halfway through my meal when Traci slid into the booth next to me.
"That looks like a heartburn risk right there," she said.
I wish I could say my quick-witted response actually came quick, but I had to wipe my mouth, gather my thoughts.
"Aw, look at you," I said, "already thinking about the state of my heart."
She laughed.
Turns out her last shift of the week is Friday night, all night, and the Saturday crawl home is the final marathon toward relaxation. Which I guess would make me that little table where they have cups of water and Gatorade to spell the runners. I realize, too, that I've neglected to note what she does for a living. She's a security guard in a cardboard warehouse. Or, not cardboard per se, not just big piles of it, but boxes and shipping materials and things. The day shifts, she sits at a gate and lets people come in, puts them on a list. At night, she roams the dusty building, hoping that sound of movement she hears off in a back shadow is just more rats and not some burglar looking for one big cardboard score.
"Is that really a concern?"
"Of course! The cardboard black market is fierce and lucrative."
Senses of humor are such polarizing things, and there are so many varieties, there's a comfort in finding someone who can laugh at your jokes and who makes you laugh. I have dated girls who have found my humor too outrageous and were always offended by things I said in jest, and that kind of relationship never works. No matter how delicately I walk on those egg shells, they are too easy to break around that sensitive of a person. I am never myself and always in trouble.
Traci and I joked and shared more stories, and before I knew it an hour and more had passed. The sun was peeking ever so briefly through the overcast sky, and Traci took a deep breath and said, "Shall we?"
I paid the bill at the counter and met her outside. The day was wide open in front of us. She was looking at me--expectantly, I think. I might have been projecting, though, might have been casting her in the light I feared she might be in.
"Well, I'll be here all week," I said finally. "Stop by again, okay?"
She was still standing there on the sidewalk as I walked away.
Saturday I would have expected to be a dead day. Take the weekends off like a regular Joe Lunchpail, because Traci's morning treks would be in similar suspension.
"There you go thinking again," my stepfather would say, "and screwing everything up."
I was halfway through my meal when Traci slid into the booth next to me.
"That looks like a heartburn risk right there," she said.
I wish I could say my quick-witted response actually came quick, but I had to wipe my mouth, gather my thoughts.
"Aw, look at you," I said, "already thinking about the state of my heart."
She laughed.
Turns out her last shift of the week is Friday night, all night, and the Saturday crawl home is the final marathon toward relaxation. Which I guess would make me that little table where they have cups of water and Gatorade to spell the runners. I realize, too, that I've neglected to note what she does for a living. She's a security guard in a cardboard warehouse. Or, not cardboard per se, not just big piles of it, but boxes and shipping materials and things. The day shifts, she sits at a gate and lets people come in, puts them on a list. At night, she roams the dusty building, hoping that sound of movement she hears off in a back shadow is just more rats and not some burglar looking for one big cardboard score.
"Is that really a concern?"
"Of course! The cardboard black market is fierce and lucrative."
Senses of humor are such polarizing things, and there are so many varieties, there's a comfort in finding someone who can laugh at your jokes and who makes you laugh. I have dated girls who have found my humor too outrageous and were always offended by things I said in jest, and that kind of relationship never works. No matter how delicately I walk on those egg shells, they are too easy to break around that sensitive of a person. I am never myself and always in trouble.
Traci and I joked and shared more stories, and before I knew it an hour and more had passed. The sun was peeking ever so briefly through the overcast sky, and Traci took a deep breath and said, "Shall we?"
I paid the bill at the counter and met her outside. The day was wide open in front of us. She was looking at me--expectantly, I think. I might have been projecting, though, might have been casting her in the light I feared she might be in.
"Well, I'll be here all week," I said finally. "Stop by again, okay?"
She was still standing there on the sidewalk as I walked away.