I'm currently having lunch alone at a diner. My peach lemonade is getting dangerously close to the bottom, and I only get one free refill. This is tragic to me at the moment because I fell instantly in love with this beverage at first sip. It's everything I was ever looking for in liquid refreshment but didn't even know it. The waitress has just come back and taken my cup for my refill, even though there was about 1/4 inch left. This means I've lost a 1/4 inch of peach lemonade -- that's 1/4 inch of enjoyment I just won't get to enjoy. Not to be petty or anything, but joy comes in such small spurts these days that I have to take it where I can, and then not be grateful for what I do have when I have it and spend my precious time wanting more, more, MORE!!!!
But I digress . . .
I'm eating alone in a cute diner not far from my house. It's the kind of place with black-and-white tile on the floor and different people coming by every couple minutes to see if I'm doing alright. I like it here, just me in my booth made for two, trying to savor my peach lemonade. There's a young couple in the booth next to me, making use of its ultimate purpose, a cozy face-to-face place for conversation to occur. I wanted to pretend they were enjoying a post-coital meal together because I'm a creep like that, but by the conversation as well as their lack of hangovers and continued interest in what each other has to say, I have struck that possibility from my mind.
The young woman is talking about her internship with a big, fancy corporation while the young man cuts in every once in awhile with exclamations of being impressed. She says she always laughs in awkward situations, and he laughs, his entire body dipping to the side, never taking his eyes from his partner in diner-date crime. Her eyes meet his gaze, and they talk about his first tattoo and whether he has regrets. She keeps her eyes on him the entire time with a gaze of confidence only those with their whole lives ahead of them and a desire to still connect intimately with other human beings can feign. Youth is so cocky with their forward-motion and giggles and cleavage and new eye makeup, not just leftover from the night before, on their face at 1:29 on a Saturday afternoon . . .
My string of inappropriate projection is prematurely interrupted as my check is placed on the table before me. The total? Lucky $13.13.
As I grab my wallet, and another couple takes a seat on the other side of me to talk about their wedding, I realize that even bad luck comes as a couple in the world around me. I'm learning things about myself here alone at the diner where Elton John plays faintly above me: I'm learning perhaps I'm a bit bitter. And next time, I'm going to put my hash browns inside my burrito.
In Case You Were Wondering . . .
Sometimes Ronnie D writes funny stuff. Sometimes she writes desperate teenage prose. Most times she just slams her feeble, little woman-hand onto the keyboard in an attempt to feel something, anything.