Design Clint Fisher

She slides into the booth like she's fallen from the sky, dropping in from thirty-seven thousand feet just to ask why she's been dragged here so early in the morning.

The duct tape holding the torn, red vinyl seats together groans and stretches against the sudden onslaught of her heroin-thin frame. She wears her flip-flops, and stubs her toe against the door on the way in. It's all she can think about.

He thinks the sunglasses she wears are too big for her face, and he's glad to see her take them off.

His face full of stubble, she's annoyed she'll have to kiss him goodbye.

He's already ordered their coffee.

She sips and complains that it's cold, and he says, well, they were supposed to meet at seven.

I know, why so early? Where were you this morning? She tucks her feet beneath her legs, her toe throbbing all the while. Can you believe how hot it is already today? She's looking out the window like you can actually see the living, breathing entity the summer heat has become.

I'm going away, he tells her, getting right to it. No sense in wasting any time.

The air is thick with bacon grease and burnt coffee. They'll have to get a shower in and change their clothes when they get home.

Really? She wants to know where.

Her pale, blue eyes are gray today.

I can't tell you. He won't brush his bangs from his forehead. His hair is getting long, but not long enough to keep it tucked and secured behind his ears. This frustrates her.

It was nothing but stubble when they first met, when she asked him to grow it out.

I'm not sure I understand. Why can't you tell me?

Because I don't know where I'm going. He keeps biting his thumbnail, wishing he had remembered to clip it this morning.

You don't know? She can't help but think this all seems a bit over-dramatic.

No.

It's too loud in here for her. All these early-morning commuters turning their newspapers page-by-page, talking on phones clipped to their ears. She enjoys her coffee at quiet cafés, and her breakfast in bed. She says pancakes taste better that way.

She asks him, Then why would you leave?

I have to get away from you.

What?

Their waitress walks by. He motions with his empty mug for more coffee. You're no good for me. He says this like he's talking about saturated fats and not the woman he's been seeing for two years.

When will you be back?

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never.

Quite skeptical of his declarations she says, You don't know where you're going and you may never return?

That sounds about right.

Sounds like it's made up.

Sounds more like life to me.

She wants to know if he's taking anything with him.

I put some clothes and an extra pair of shoes in a garbage bag this morning. It's in my trunk.

You packed before you left?

Just the essentials, he tells her.

Your toothbrush was still on the sink when I got up.

I can buy a new one.

You know I hate waking up alone.

And to think how much we used to hate going to bed alone. We just can't win.

She's had enough at this point. His elusive statements. The cold coffee. The early morning. Why don't you tell me what's really going on? She wants to know so she can go home. Back to bed where she'll enjoy a proper breakfast.

The waitress refills their mugs. His mug. Hers is still full of coffee and getting colder.

I just want some consistency from you. I told you if we kept this up, you'd drive me away.

She sighs relief. I get it.

I hope so.

This is all metaphorically speaking.

This is me getting behind the wheel and putting as much distance between us as possible without driving into the Atlantic.

She's not so sure how to take that so she says, You know, I found your suicide notes, and believes this to be the appropriate retaliatory response.

Don’t take it personally. It was just something to pass the time.

Her feet are falling asleep. She can no longer feel her toe, and this pleases her. Are you going away because you plan to kill yourself?

He picks up the dinner knife and twirls the tip of the blade against the table. It was more of a hobby than anything.

What will I tell my friends?

You never tell them anything. I can't imagine there being an issue.

She wants to know what he'll do for money. Did he quit his job?

He tells her he just isn't going in today. They'll figure it out.

Don't I get a say in this?

I never got a say in us. Why should you get a say in this? He pauses. He's being unfair. He says so. I guess that's being unfair. Then he says, Go ahead and say what you'd like.

I'd like you to stay.

Is that all?

She shrugs. More or less.

Let's talk about less.

I feel like you've just brought me here to prove something. She sips her coffee and makes a face like she's surprised it's cold.

I sent you letters, but you never read them. I called, but you wouldn't answer. I showed up at your door, and you were never home.

What was I supposed to do?

All this time, you've only wanted me the way you wanted me. He returns the knife to where he found it. I have to go. He takes one last sip of coffee, knowing it'll only be a matter of minutes before he'll have to stop somewhere and pee.

Now?

It's all I've got. He stands.

Looking up at him she wonders aloud, Can't this wait until tomorrow morning? She's confident this will pass. It always passes.

And if morning doesn’t come? He plays with the change in his pockets, taps his toes, fiddles with all that hair that just won't stay still.

Morning always comes, Silly.

He looks out the door to a world he's all too unfamiliar with.

Looking back at her he says, That's what scares me.

He leaves enough money on the table to cover the bill.

She touches her toes to make sure they're still there.

Goodbye, Love. He walks away.

She orders the pancakes. They just don't taste the same.

The End.