The hostess looks up at me. A patina of fine fair hair over her lip is faintly visible. I ate those up. I notice everything. I see everything. I see my sister, long gone now. I didn’t mean it.
I just stare. She looks perplexed. She says eventually, are you okay mister?
I nod.
-One, is it so?
I nod.
I follow her to a table.
-Will this do?
-Ah. No. I need a window seat. Also, I need not to be near toilets.
I can smell everything in here, sweat, perfume, fries, burgers, ketchup, air freshers, urine, Clorox, cinnamon buns, smoke residue on clothes, the sins of man. Okay, not that one.
-Our rest rooms are the cleanest in the county I must say, she says.
They are shit rooms not rest rooms I say to myself but I stop from saying it out loud. Restraint is my middle name. She leads me to a window seat far from the toilets. I sit down. I check the table for any detritus. And nod.
-Thanks. I know I’m high maintenance I try to joke. It comes out awkwardly. She just looks at me perplexed. She looks at me intently.
-Don’t I know you from somewhere?
-Yes. From here. From school. From before. You know? Victor.
-Oh right, I remember you now. Irish accent. You still have it a bit.
-You smoked Sweet Afton.
-Still do.
-You drove a blue Taurus.
-Oh Jesus, yeah. I was in love with that car!
I nod.
– I was sort of in love with…..
-Your sister disappeared or something, right?
-Yes. Lucy. Twins we were. Lost she is.
She nods. She wipes her forehead. And brushes away a strand of hair that has come loose from her hair band.
-You’re Minerva.
-Wow, super memory. It’s 30 years if it’s a day.
I nod.
-I have total recall. A big curse overall. Also, I was sort of in love with…
-Yes? The blue taurus was it? You look like the car-love aching type.
-Yes,…..yes. Something like that I suppose.
-Okay. I better go. Or the boss will fire me. Great to see you.
I blurt out ‘You’re still as cute as a …’
She lingers.
-Yes?
– As a a a calf.
-WHAT!!?
She edges back, startled, eyes blinking arrhythmically.
Fuck me – I meant a fawn – as cute as a fucken fawn. Not a fucken calf. Sure, how is that a fucken compliment I ask myself. I am just out I suppose. I just need more practice.
She stands there like a stunned gazelle. That’s even better than a fawn. Plus, it’s from a Yeats line. All the Irish are poets. Except for the killers. And the like.
I try to calf myself down. Not easy. I’m trying to counteract the feeling of unease flooding my body. I keep staring at her. She backs away hesitantly and returns to her station. This reunion is not going according to plan. I am number one planner when it comes to armored car robberies and the like.
I gulp down the glass of tepid table water. I am sweating like a pig-dog. I order rice and beans from the server. Strict vegan.
-Enjoy he says, when he comes back with my food.
I eat quickly. I pay. I tip. Therefore I am. An American.
I walk towards the exit. At the last second, I veer towards the hostess. She looks at me nervously.
-Sorry, I say. I meant fawn not calf.
-Fawn?
Cutlery echoes off plates behind me. The noise bothers me. It is hard to think. I blink hard.
-Yeah. Fawn. Not calf. They both have an ‘f’ and an ‘a’. And four letters. And four legs. Except near Chernobyl.
-What!!
I give her 20 dollars.
-Sorry.
I walk out into the dark forecourt. I smell rain in the air. An Irish skill. We never wear rain gear so we need some type of early warning system.
I trudge back to the Shotgun Honey Motel in the dusk past the silhouettes of shuttered store fronts.
In the darkness I unholster my Luger and throw it onto the bed.
I stand there.
I fucken cry.
