Day 1 (Part 1)

“Excuse me, Miss?” a gent in the corner booth gently pleads. I wake from my haze—or perhaps a lost world (somewhat like a dream, but almost like a sleep). I jump up from the windowsill, nearly spilling the coffee within the glass carafe between my asbestos hands.

“Oh! Sir!” I say in a voice unusually high, and I run to his side as quickly as my feet will allow. “I’m so sorry. Here, here.” I top off his empty mug—it is almost overflowing, and I pray he takes it black as I take a step back. He looks not at the gray mug, small and chipped and like all of the others, but instead, he stares at me. “Are you okay, Ma’am?”

‘Ma’am’? When did I become a ‘Ma’am’?’ I ponder pointlessly.

“Of course, yes, thank you,” I quickly say, removing a clean-ish rag from my muddled apron and dabbing at the coffee that actually did spill from his cup. I step back and grin desperately for dismissal.

“You seem to have your head in the clouds,” he says as he shakes out his newspaper, but does not yet turn his eyes to it.

“Well, you can hardly blame me on a cloudy day like today,” I say, and the impatience in my voice was unmistakable. I try to salvage it with a smile, but the customer quickly turns to his newspaper. I never did see him take a sip of the overflowing coffee, but I returned shortly after to find the man gone, the cup empty, and a gracious, though slightly soggy, tip beneath it.

These are my diner days.

Day 1 (Part 2)

I return home some hours later, thoroughly drained by a day not quite worthy of such a fatigue. Shoes are kicked off, followed by a heavy sigh that never leaves the apartment entrance.

“Is that you?” comes a handsome voice from around the corner.

“Who else?” I say, but it sounds utterly uncharming and I wish I had not. As I hang my head and coat, the tottering shame is suddenly replaced by genuine terror, and then quickly—finally—unbridled joy. Pinchy fingers struck my sides like two cuddly vipers, and then I was enveloped in arms bigger and longer than my own. I screeched and dropped my bag on the floor—or would have, if Handsome had not snatched it up while he tickled my totally unguarded waist.

“You—beast!” I say in a false struggle, but quickly swing myself around to meet the man. Our lips barely touch between our smiles, and before I know it, a day of toil has melted away to nothing, and any thought of it is easily dismissed.

“Come in the kitchen,” says Handsome, and his voice is every bit as sweet as the day I met him. “I want you to try something.”

“I suppose, for you,” I say sarcastically, but the charm I wanted is there, and Handsome smiles.

“You’ll love it. Come on.” We migrate to the kitchen close together. Its clean state is no surprise, but the divinely looking yellow pastries with gigantic white dollops of cream were totally unexpected.

“Where did you get these?” I ask, unable to look away from the amazing little things.

“I made them,” says Handsome, and his voice is unmistakably true.

“No!” I say anyway.

“I did. Look good, yeah?”

“They look—” I search for something. Anything. “They look like a dream.”

“Ha,” he said, actually relieved. “Try one?”

“Am I allowed to touch it?”

“God—please do!”

I quickly take one of the pastries in my hand. I wish I washed them first, but with permission given, I simply cannot wait. My lips draw close and I take in the illustrious scent of vanilla. The cream touches my nose and I don’t mind. I open wide and take half the pastry to my mouth. The soft sponge melts away in my mouth just as my day did in the foyer. I have no idea what I am tasting. Lemon? Cinnamon? Heaven?

Handsome says nothing as I swallow. There is pain from the delicate sweetness that has accosted my every facial nerve ending, and I don’t care. Handsome continues to wait. I nod slowly at him. “Ha!” he says. I take another bite. “Missing something—I thought so.” 

Mouth filled with the other half of the pastry, I can only give him a look of confusion and shake my head in disagreement. A few moments later, I could finally swallow. “What could they possibly be missing?”

“I was hoping you would tell me.”

I return my gaze to the decadent sponge cakes. I am sure my expression is one of thoughtfulness, but I feel absolutely clueless. Perfectly round cup shaped puffs were topped with clouds of whipped topping, placed just so that they looked like miniature Taj Mahals. I never thought to consider what wasn’t there.

“I don’t know,” I finally say, truly disappointed in myself.

“Oh well,” says Handsome. He kissed the whipped topping off of my nose before sweeping the tray of pastries off of the counter. The next thing I knew, they hovered precariously over the basket of disposables. “I suppose these are no good.”

“No!” I shout, and it is loud. I run to Handsome to save the yummy things, but he is already laughing and handing over the tray.

---