Like a dream.
Her face spoke to me.
I coughed putting out the cigarette.
“You're not seriously going to do this?” She crossed her arms.
This story contains adult language
“It'll be alright. We'll be alright.” I said taking a sip of room temperature water brown diner coffee. She lit a cigarette.
“I don't care. I don't like it. It doesn't sound like a good idea.” She remarked. “Did you even tell your parents?”
“Of course fucking not. They'd freak out.”
“Duh.”
“I'll leave them a note or something.” I said. “Just so they'll know and not call the cops. I'll... we'll be back in a few days, or a week at most.”
“I think it's a dumb idea.”
“Maybe, but I'm still going to do it. Now come on, finish your waffle fries and lets go for a drive. Our usual loop, crank up that new album and smoke a bowl or two.”
“Sure,” she said. “Think I have a little left.
“Cool.” I lit a cigarette.
Red worn leather seats screeched in the booth with every ass cheek wiggle. I leaned against the wall kicking my feet up on the booth seat weathered by decades of butts sitting in the same position. Two pairs of perfectly indents cracked impressions. Yellow tan 1970's drab floral wall paper lined the walls stained from constant saturation of cigarette smoke. Dull un-opinionated, non-offensive still life paintings hung like grandma's house over the tables. Classic midwestern diner.
We had our favorite two booths. If the one in the corner was taken, we'd have our back up. Not many folks on a Saturday ten pm come in to eat. I never liked sitting at the island tables, too vulnerable, like an object of observation. Trucker ass cracks sticking out through wooden chair backs. Should be a fineable crime. Who can eat after witnessing that? I’d slide into the back corner and chain smoke until 2am, sketching in notebooks while sipping shitty coffee with the couple other teenage regulars. We're pretend we were on some pre-enlightened sensational bullshit too disillusioned to know we weren't smarter than the system. Believing we were unburdened by the dollar while stuck in the bubble encapsulating this town. Unable to escape. Always being pulled back at every effort to leave. Stuck in the world between growing up and forced adulthood- lost years searching for identity.
At nineteen, a small Wisconsin town Saturday nights don't offer much curricular opportunity for the restless, but we were young, optimistic, and ready to face the world. A pack of smoke and a half a tank of gas- adrift and promised to imagine any future could be possible. Raised in the 90's, we surviving the long lines of Y2K gas stations without a single scratch. When you're nineteen, you're invincible, and the bullets bounce off.
We split the bill. I mean, she paid for my shitty coffee and her vanilla coke with fries. $7.85, I left a three dollar tip for our favorite server Sara. That's all the cash I had. Working part time hotel banquet $5.75/hr didn't afford me much luxury.
“Alright, let’s go.” She said sipping the last bits of her soda making the slurping sound far too long that's publicly acceptable. I put my square out in the heaping pile in the ashtray and slammed the last cold bit of coffee in my cup. I wiped the corners of my mouth on my sleeve and waved goodbye to my comrades of philosophy as we left the diner.
An unnoticed rain left a haze on the warm summer’s night asphalt. It glowed under yellow orange of parking lot lights. We drove off into the long dark of country roads. I rolled down the window and lit a cigarette after cashing out a bowl.
“You got that new CD, Gorillaz? I really dig that shit.”
“Sure.” and I turned up the radio dial with nowhere to go.
“I still don't think it's a good idea.”
“I know. That's why we're doing it.” I flicked my butt out the window surrounded by the quiet dark. Yellow dotted lines flying under our wings.