our windowsill

The bike ride to work was uneventful. I couldn’t say that for the ride back home, but at least I had this morning. It was quiet, peaceful… and I had time to think.

What if Thomas comes to the diner today? I thought, panic creeping up my spine as I rode along, passing sunbeams on the gravel path. I tried to shake off the feeling, and focus on the morning instead. My heart swelled for my mother, who spent her morning comforting me when she could have been resting for her long day at work. I was so grateful for her. She was the reason I had any drive to succeed at all; when my father died several years ago, we were all devastated. It was a hard year to bounce back from. I was only eleven, but my entire worldview shifted; my grades plummeted, I was eating less, and I completely stopped talking.

My mom took me to a doctor and they said sometimes shock or grief can make children nonverbal. The eating thing was a concern as well, so my mom spent her year realigning my sister and I to a stable, healthy life without my dad. She homeschooled us that year, teaching us how to be ourselves again. She would make us special lunches that we would request by writing with shower crayons in the bath. We would wear goggles and bathing suits and sit in our bathtub, call it a pool, and draw on the shower walls. By the time we were clean and dressed, she’d be downstairs fixing our chicken nuggets and mac’n’cheese. Sometimes I would ask for hot chocolate on a muggy summer day, and we’d all have whipped cream mustaches and talk in terrible British accents until our drinks were gone. It was the hardest year, but it was the year that I relearned how to laugh, how to be myself. And it was all because of my mom.

My eyes burned as I thought about how grateful I was. In her darkest times, she was our beacon. She lost her love, and became the stronghold for us. I couldn’t even imagine.

As the wooded trail broke into country roads and freeways, I finally pulled up to the diner. Simmer Down was still illuminated by the underglow we use after dark, flickering ever so slightly in their age. I took my bike around back and double locked it, securing my tires and the frame to the bike rack Mr. Simmer installed for me when we realized I didn’t have a car. He offered me a three-month-bump in salary so I could save up and buy a car, but I didn’t really want one. I liked riding my bike, and I wasn’t going anywhere outside of town any time soon, so I politely declined. I realized later that I should have taken it so I could put it toward Eloise’s college fund, but I didn’t want to be sneaky about a generous offer.

I came in through the back door and set my stuff down in the back room. As I ironed my uniform, I checked my watch: 6:14 am. Time to hustle.

By 7 am, I was spick and spam and ready for the day. The coffee was brewing, the silverware folded, and the fake leather seats smelled like lemon scented disinfectant. Today felt… oddly nice. For the first time in months, I felt like I could really breathe. A weight that I didn’t know was living in my chest had been evicted. I smiled to myself as I prepped more silverware, waiting for my locals.

“What’re you grinnin’ about, little lady?” a husky voice called from the kitchen window. I looked back and saw Mr. Simmer, organizing kitchen prep. He grinned at me through crow’s feet, his white mustache tinged yellow. I scoffed lightheartedly.

“Don’t I usually smile?” I tease.

“Usually,” he agrees, his rosie cheeks still caught in a grin. “Just doesn’t reach yer eyes so much these days. Except for today, I s’pose?”

I didn’t respond immediately, mulling it over. I guess I really was unhappy for the past several months… and I thought I did so well at hiding it.

Finally, I responded.

“I broke up with Thomas last night.”

Mr. Simmer was quiet. Then he let out a low whistle.

“Well, that’ll do it,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I’m real sorry, Margo. Endin’ things with someone, that’s… never easy. You two’ere, ehm…”

He trailed off, clearly struggling to find something nice to say about Thomas. He gave up with a chuckle. I don’t blame him.

“In any case,” he said, “I’m happy if you’re happy.”

I smiled.

“Thank you, Mr. Simmer. I’m looking forward to today.”

“Good!” he grinned, clapping his hands in a “that’s the end of that!” gesture. “Do me a favor and turn that sign to ‘open’ for me.”