our windowsill

I woke that morning to an unfamiliar smell. My house, normally lingering with the smell of beeswax and firewood, smelled like coffee beans and vanilla. It wasn’t unpleasant, but I was certainly confused. Still half asleep, I sat up and checked my alarm clock; 5:15 am. I had information floating around in my head as to what that meant, but my groggy brain would not allow me to register it at this time. My body, however, didn’t need permission to know what to do next, and began to get ready for work in an hour.

Working at the diner meant either working before the sun rose, or coming home long after it set. I preferred working mornings, believe it or not, because it was generally a friendlier crowd, with fewer customers right out the gate. They were all in the same boat I was in, having to wake up early to make it to work and get the day started. On a Thursday morning like today, I would be met with the local regulars who would be stopping in for a pot after wrangling and feeding their herds, or before they made the drive and clocked in at the factory ten miles away. I’d be greeted with mornin’, Margie and extra strong today, ma’am through thick drawls and stifled yawns. And while I yawned and dried my freshly showered, violently ginger hair as I got dressed, I thought about how grateful I was for those working men. They made sleepy mornings more fun, more worth the half hour bike ride it took to get there. We were all on the same team, working to keep the little town we all lived in up and moving.

The afternoon and evening shifts, however, were a different story. In the afternoon, we had the rushes, the blow-ins, and the creeps. Not every day was busy, but being on a stretch of road adjacent to a highway meant we were an excellent pit stop for families and travelers who wanted a spot to eat other than a gas station. Were we a step up from beef jerky and bottled, off brand soda? Absolutely. Were we the best of the best? God, no. Simmer Down Diner was a humble, worn down little sit-in eatery that could comfortably hold about forty people, fifty was really pushing it. The walls were miraculously sturdy wood, from the original build in 1947. The soft, warm lighting came from the individual lamps hanging over booth tables, the bench cushions worn and sagging, but comfortable nonetheless. The smell of coffee, bacon, and grilled burgers permeated from the kitchen, steeping the aged wood with the intoxicating aroma. If this place finally went out of business after 75-or-so years, the smell would live in this building until it rotted back to the earth. On a good day, some yuppies would come in and I’d charm them with my little mountain accent, earn an extra tip or two off their city slicker inhibitions. And on normal days, I’d have some lovely bottle blondes teach me a thing or two about “flirting with a married man,” or complaints from an alleged “grill master” about the fifteen minute wait to sit and try a burger that isn’t even brown all through the middle! On those days, all there is to do is smile, apologize, and hope they drive safe to wherever they’re headed next. With a huff and a puff, I never see them again, so it’s no real skin off my back. At least, not until the sun goes down.

The night shift means we’re one of the only lights on for miles. We get the dark drivers, the ones who keep going without stopping to sleep. They’re the ones that don’t like to make hotel reservations. The ones that don’t like a paper trail. The ones that pay in cash. Now, this isn’t a common opinion around town, but I prefer when they don’t talk. I’d rather pour a hot cup of coffee for a man who doesn’t thank me and leaves a pile of sweaty, individual dollars without ever asking for a bill, than a man who asks a bunch of questions that I’d rather he didn’t know the answer to. If there’s one thing I learned from working at Simmer Down (After Dark), it’s that the quiet ones are friendly, and the friendly ones outta be quiet.

Today, though, was a morning shift, so I’d be clocking out around 3:00. No creeps, just some cranky, roadsick families and my locals. I threw my uniform in my bag and headed downstairs to fill my water bottle. I had this down to a science; prep for a morning bike ride, take my work clothes to work, get there early and freshen up in the back room. By the time we flipped the sign from “Sorry, we’re Closed!” to “Come on in! We’re Open!”, I was as fresh as a daisy. I even had an ironing board in the back room to spruce up my uniform, just in case the bike ride created any noticeable wrinkles. Being one of two waitresses at Simmer Down kind of made it so I could do whatever I wanted, as long as the job got done.

When I made it downstairs, I looked to the kitchen to see who, or what, was making that vanilla-sweet smell. I was surprised to see my mom, sitting comfortably at the kitchen table. She was wearing Dad’s robe, weathered and faded from a baby blue to a tender gray. Her raven hair was dashed with streaks of silver, and tossed up in a hair claw. She looked up from her coffee and smiled blearily at me.

“Good morning,” she said warmly, still hoarse from sleep.

“Good morning,” I smiled softly, squinting at her. “Why are you up? It’s not even 6 am.”

She shrugged, leaning back in her chair. “Wanted to say good morning before you headed off for the day,” she said, keeping her voice hushed so as not to wake my sister. Our kitchen was a modest little corner. I always felt like it was built by faeries; the window always let in just enough light by the sink to keep our herbs growing, the various jars of pickled vegetables lining the shelves, the homely glass bottles of milk we got from the farmer a mile down the road. It fit the rest of our home like a glove. A home like this belonged to a hobbit, or a little witch deep in the woods, not a widowed woman in marketing and her two daughters.

My mom never woke up before me, at least not in the past couple years.

“What’s up?” I said, joining her at the kitchen table.

She signed, and sat up. Her eyes were kind and all-knowing. I’m sure she wasn’t completely omnipotent, but when it came to me and my sister, it always seemed she was.

“I overheard you and Thomas last night,” she confessed.

My stomach did a little flip. I completely forgot.

“How much did you hear?” I asked, my cheeks reddening. I knew better than to be embarrassed with my mother, but I couldn’t help it. Last night was pathetic, for both myself and Thomas. She smiled sheepishly, and I groaned.

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said, getting up and hugging me from behind. She kissed my head and fiddled with my hair. “Breakups are the worst.”

“I just wish I hadn’t cried so much,” I griped. “It made me look like I regretted breaking it off.” I did not regret it. Thomas and I had dated for two years, and only six months of them were really any good. He was childish, entitled and self centered, but he always had a way of keeping me around. He had a way of making me feel special, like I was the exception to his shitty sense of humor and borderline harassment. Except lately, I wasn’t the exception anymore. And the more I thought about us, the guiltier I felt; I spent a lot of time early in the relationship thinking I could make him a better person. When I realized I couldn’t, I gave up, just grateful I wasn’t the one being made fun of. I didn’t deserve to be the exception. And I definitely didn’t want to be with someone who thought exceptions could be made.

“I hate to say it,” my mom sighed, gazing out the window while playing with my baby bairs. “But he was a jackass.” I nodded. To be honest, the reason I was crying was because I was scared. I’d mustered up the courage to end it a couple times within the past few months, and each time I was met with shouting, throwing things, and threats. So I would call off the breakup and promise to make it work. But this time, I meant it. I wasn’t going back. I was done. And he knew it, too, because this time he was quiet. I cried and told him I was sorry (I wasn’t), and it wasn’t his fault (it was), and that I needed some space.

He simply said, “Alright, Margie. I get it. See you ‘round.” And walked off my porch.

All of last night came flooding back to me, and I was suddenly overcome with dread.

“What if he comes to the diner today?” I said, looking up at my mom. She thought about it, then whistled.

“He’d better hope Mr. Simmer didn’t come to work with the double barrel, then,” she said.