Reminiscing
Love remembers. Memory edits.
This is my submission for the SUM FLUX Waffle House open call.
Keith Long made this edit of an edit of an edit for you.
The waitress was bent over the jukebox when I walked in, one hand disappearing behind the machine while the other smacked the side panel with growing irritation. She hit it again. The jukebox answered with a burst of static, then went silent.
She straightened and rubbed her lower back. “If I have to be here all night, the least I could ask for is a little music,” she said, giving me the once over.
The restaurant was nearly empty.
A truck driver occupied a booth near the windows, staring into a plate of eggs with the concentration of a man contemplating major surgery.
A college-aged girl sat alone by the window, smoking and reading. A worn varsity jacket lay on the seat beside her. A blue Red Sox cap sat low on her forehead. Bright yellow sneakers peeked out beneath the table.
She’s a long way from Boston, I thought.
As I passed, I nodded. She never looked up from her book.
I took my usual seat in Booth Seven. The waitress grabbed a menu and headed my way. Behind the counter, the phone rang.
“Nice night,” she said.
I glanced through the windows. The sky was clear. A few stars hung above the interstate. Headlights drifted steadily through the darkness.
“Feels like rain.”
She followed my gaze. “Doesn’t look like rain.”
I shrugged. “Just a feeling.”
The waitress set the menu in front of me. I pretended to study it. After the seventh ring, the phone stopped.
“What’ll it be?”
“Waffles.”
“So, your usual.”
“You know me,” I said, not sure she did.
She wrote something on her pad, then paused. “I suppose we could all use a little rain tonight.”
I looked up, but she was already walking away.
The remark lingered for a moment before dissolving into the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant hiss of traffic along the interstate. She disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later, she returned with coffee.
The jukebox lit up, flickered.
We both looked over.
Then it went dark and remained silent.
She shook her head. “Damn thing.”
I took a sip of coffee. It tasted exactly the way Waffle House coffee always tasted. Not good. Not bad. Just committed.
“Anything else I can get you while I’m here?”
“A good night’s sleep.”
“That’s not on the menu.”
The phone began to ring.
The waitress drifted down the aisle and topped off the truck driver’s coffee. The trucker pointed at the ketchup bottle; without a word, she slid it within reach. Across the restaurant, the girl in the Red Sox cap turned a page. The truck driver returned his attention to the eggs.
Then the jukebox flickered once, twice, then flooded the room with static. A second later, music spilled from the speakers.
Buddy Holly.
Reminiscing.
It was always Reminiscing.
The waitress stared at the jukebox for a moment. “I’ll be damned.”
The sultry, sensuous King Curtis tenor sax solo kicked the song into full gear, and the phone fell silent. That was when I looked toward the door. Not because it had opened. Because after twenty years, I’d learned the order of things.
The bell above the entrance rang. Claire stepped inside, carrying a yellow umbrella. She paused long enough to scan the restaurant.
The truck driver.
The girl in the Red Sox cap.
The waitress.
Me.
Eyes on me, she headed toward Booth Seven. “You look older,” she said.
“Hello, Claire.”
She slid into the seat across from me. “You should sleep more.”
“You said that in Wichita.”
“It wasn’t Wichita.”
“It was definitely Wichita.”
“It was Tulsa.”
I nodded. “Good to see you too.”
The waitress appeared beside the table.
“More coffee?”
Claire nodded. “And cream,” she said, holding up two fingers.
The waitress waited.
I shook my head.
“It was Tulsa,” Claire said. “You ordered a steak.”
“I always order steak.”
“You complained about the hotel.”
“Always do.”
“There was a bowling alley next door.”
Claire stared at me like that clarified everything.
“That hardly narrows it down.”
“You lost fifty dollars, then fifty more trying to win it back.”
“That sounds like me.”
Claire smiled. “It was Tulsa.”
“Fine. It was Tulsa.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not admitting you were right.”
“Of course not.”
She settled back in the booth, looking far too pleased with herself.
The first drops of rain tapped softly against the windows.
“How have you been, David?”
“Same as always.”
It was an answer, but not really, and I knew it.
The waitress arrived and set the plate of waffles in front of me.
“Anything else I can get you, Honey?”
I looked at Claire. She shook her head.
“No,” I replied. “I’m all set.”
I poured the syrup, watching her instead of the plate. Claire had always complained about how much I used. Like I was drowning a puppy. I let it pour, and pour, and waited.
“If you’re expecting me to comment on whatever that tragedy is…” she said, waving a hand toward the plate.
I put the syrup down. “You’re right about one thing,” I said. “I am getting older.”
She took a cigarette from the pack in her pocket and lit it. “Getting older is a luxury most people don’t appreciate.”
I winced without wincing.
“How long has it been?” I asked.
“Since Boise? Or my accident?”
I watched a paper cup tumble across the parking lot. “I know exactly how long it’s been since your accident.”
She nodded. “I suppose you would.”
She took a sip of coffee. Rain ticked against the glass. Across the restaurant, the girl in the Red Sox cap turned another page.
Claire stared out the window. “It’s been two years since Boise.”
“That long?”
“Yes.”
She took a drag from her cigarette. I watched the waitress drop a fresh pot of coffee in front of the trucker with a dull thud.
“You were still seeing that horrid woman with the Great Dane.”
“I remember.”
“She was no good for you.”
She stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. “You don’t even want to know what she was doing with that dog when you weren’t around.”
I set my fork down, and she picked it up, stabbing a piece of waffle.
“Really, Claire. That’s mean… even for you.”
She wiped the excess syrup off the waffle, stuck it in her mouth, and talked as she chewed.
“Well, it’s true.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Probably.”
We looked at each other for a moment then we both burst out laughing.
“You’re bad,” I said, using my napkin to wipe a spot of syrup from the corner of her mouth.
“Moving on,” she said.
“I was thinking about Knoxville earlier. Do you remember that trip?”
“I do.”
“It was a good time.”
“It had its moments,” she said, “but I doubt you remember anything before taking off my clothes.”
“Claire…”
“I’m serious. It was our first time. You don’t remember how self-conscious I was.”
“You weren’t.”
“David.”
“You didn’t seem like it.”
“I was terrified.”
“You didn’t seem terrified.”
Claire stirred the coffee.
“That’s because you always remember Knoxville as some great romance.”
“It was.”
She laughed. “David, we spent most of that trip sleeping and having sex. The only reason you let me out of bed was because the air conditioner broke and there was so much sweat it felt like we were skinny dipping.”
“That’s not how I remember it.”
“Exactly.”
Somewhere behind the counter, hash browns hissed on the griddle.
“We had a nice dinner at the Italian place,” I said. “And we went dancing afterwards.”
She nodded. “I’m not saying it wasn’t nice. What I’m saying is that I had a different experience.”
Without warning the trucker sneezed and it felt like the whole place shook.
“Lord Bill,” the waitress called, “you nearly gave me a heart attack.”
The girl in the baseball cap hadn’t seemed to notice.
“You know what I remember most about us?” she asked.
“What?”
“How you always relied on me when you needed help.”
“That’s what people do.”
“You’d had a bad day. Your car made a noise. Your brother needed money.”
“You make me sound selfish.”
“No. Only human.”
She wrapped both hands around the coffee mug. “Everybody always needed something, and I was always expected to have an answer.”
“That was your superpower.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Did you ever think to ask what I needed?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
“I know you loved me, David. I never doubted that. But I needed more.”
Her words weren’t cruel. Only honest.
“I did love you.”
“I know.”
“I still do.”
Claire smiled. “I know, and that’s part of the problem.”
I looked at her. “How’s that?”
She traced a finger around the rim of the cup. “Because the longer someone is gone, the easier it is to sand off the rough edges. You remember me being beautiful. Loving. Strong. Confident.”
“You were all those things.”
She smiled. “Most of the time I was making it up as I went along.”
I smiled. “You could have fooled me. Besides, isn’t that what we all do?”
“Probably.”
Claire studied me for a long moment. Rain slid down the windows. Singing drifted from the kitchen, a deep Jamaican voice.
“I wasn’t unhappy, David.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t perfect either.”
“I know.”
Claire laughed. “No. That’s the problem.” She pointed at me. “You don’t. The Claire you miss and the Claire who made love to you in Knoxville aren’t the same person.”
“Then who is she?”
Claire was quiet for a moment. “Someone you found easier to lose.”
She looked out at the rain. “You have your own version of me.”
“How so?”
“You remember a strong, confident, beautiful version.”
She lit another cigarette. “I like that version of me too.”
“Claire—”
“She doesn’t need anything from you. She always knows the right thing to say. Always brave, never scared. The version of me that makes everything easy for you.”
Rain drummed softly against the roof.
“It’s exhausting, David.”
Claire lowered her gaze to the coffee. “I think you should keep her.”
“What?”
Claire shrugged. “She’s who you need her to be.”
“That’s not what I want.”
Claire smiled. “I know, but you should keep her anyway.” She said it the same way she’d always offered to drive. She set the coffee cup down.
“I want you to be happy, David.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment, watching the waitress wipe down the counter. Claire glanced toward the windows. The rain fell heavier now and the phone began ringing again.
“I should go.”
I nodded.
She put out the cigarette, stood and smoothed the front of her jacket.
“Thank you for the coffee.”
“Claire?”
She looked back.
“Will I see you again?”
For a moment, I thought she would try to avoid the question. Instead, she smiled. “I hope so.” Then she picked up the yellow umbrella and headed for the door.
By the time Buddy Holly faded out and the jukebox went dark for good, Booth Seven was empty again. I left a twenty-dollar bill on the table and headed for the door. When I passed the girl in the baseball cap, I heard the phone stop ringing.
Outside, rain hammered the parking lot. A lanky young man carrying a battered instrument case nearly ran into me as he hurried inside.
“Sorry.”
“No problem.”
The bell chimed behind me. Before returning to my car, I glanced back through the window. The young man had stopped beside the girl in the Red Sox cap. His instrument case rested against the booth.
She finally looked up from her book.
😭 actually if you could just rewrite this so everyone is alive and happy and together and in love that would be great, thanks.