Sugar Pink

We met in a diner at 3AM. I was in a corner booth, hunched over a cup of coffee and she just sat down opposite me. Her presence spiked my drink, but I didn’t look up at her until I’d finished it. She was watching me with crystal blue eyes that drooped slightly, probably a symptom of the time.

“How old do you think I am?” she asked as soon as my eyes flicked up. I put the cup down, and twisted it, chipped side away from me. A waitress strolled past the booth yawning, and the girl turned her attention away from me to order a grilled cheese and a banana milkshake. The air conditioning hummed above us.

“Well?” she pressed as the waitress padded off. Behind her I watched a couple stumble through the door, giggling and holding hands. I tried not to think of my wife, but even the way their fingers were laced together reminded me of her.

“Um…” I tapped my fingers on the plastic counter top and looked at her. She couldn’t have been much older than my daughter, but something had definitely worn against her face a little. Experience, most likely. “Eighteen?”

She smiled at that, and there was smudge of bright pink lipstick on her teeth, matching her lips. The dark sky outside filtered in through the windows and hollowed everything in sight. Everything in this place seemed dirty, the benches, the tables, the booths, the worn linoleum floor. They were probably not, though. The diner was probably clean, but the reputation that was plastered over it affected what I saw.

I was too tired to ask her why she was just sat there. In my brain at the time it seemed normal, almost. A young woman sat with a balding middle aged man – totally normal, yeah right.

“Where’s your wife?” she asked, nodding at my wedding ring. My stomach dropped because I knew where my wife was, and I really wished that I didn’t. The gold band weighed down my whole arm, burning my skin.

“Probably with that Spanish son-of-a-bitch,” I laughed dryly.

“Is that why you’re here?” The diner was surprisingly busy considering the time and its location. I wondered if there was a copy of me in every other diner. A man living out of his car because it was the only thing his estranged wife left him. The odds were in favour of the idea, I thought.

“No, I’m here because I love the coffee,” I spat. I tried not to think about how harshly my words came out. It was none of her business why I was here, but I wasn’t a rude person. I didn’t like to be.

“I don’t care if you think I’m stupid.” She gritted her teeth and I couldn’t help feeling a little bad.

“Why are you here, anyway?” I asked. I definitely felt bad now, I hated snapping at people.

Her soft features perked up a little, and she beamed a crooked toothy smile. “Came here from the motel ‘round the corner. He kept asking me to stay but I didn’t.”

The only motel relatively near was just over a mile away. I pictured her walking down the middle of the empty road in complete darkness, holding her strappy sandals in her hands.

“Do you do that a lot?” I slipped the wedding ring off my finger and tucked it into my suit pocket.

“Getting a bit personal.” She was chewing gum. Occasionally it flashed, a little purple blob behind her teeth.

“Overly personal questions seem to be the theme of the conversation.” I could feel the ring against my chest, sat in my pocket.

“Two strangers sharing their dark secrets at three in the morning,” she popped a bubble between her lips, “It’s like we’re the main characters in a film noir.” She paused, curling a few strands of mousy brown hair between her fingers, “And – sometimes, yeah. It’s hard living your life as a cliché; you gotta wear your heart on your cheek.”

We were both clichés, I realized. Everybody else in the diner was probably a cliché too. I was an unhappy forty year old, legally married but not in a relationship. I drove around the state between bars, and motels, and diners, waiting for Sherry to call and tell me she wanted me back. I hadn’t spoken to my only daughter in almost a month. My life was turning to shit.

The same waitress walked back to the booth and placed a grilled cheese and a bright yellow milkshake down on the battered table. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Another cup of coffee,” I passed her my cup, “thanks.” She didn’t reply, just took my mug and walked off.

“So what’s your name anyway?” She pulled the plate towards her and picked a slice of the grilled cheese up.

“Paul,” I said. Another couple walked in, but they weren’t holding hands. They skulked through and sat at the counter, not looking at each other. “Yours?”

“Lolita,” she giggled. I rolled my eyes but I don’t think she noticed. She pulled the bubblegum out of her mouth and stuck it on the edge of her plate.

Her name may not have been Lolita, but that was her perfect cliché. Cream sandals and a pale pink Church dress. It’d be formal if it wasn’t worn and smudged with grime.

“It’s not exactly the most convincing alias.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” She took a bite out of the grilled cheese and left a lipstick print around the bite mark.

She probably did this all the time, I thought. She probably went to a different sleazy motel with some guy every night, then crawled into a diner, looking for the only person in the world that could possibly be more hopeless than her.

“How’s the conversation supposed to go from here, then?” I asked as the waitress sidled up to the table. She practically dropped the cup directly in front of me and walked off before I had chance to say thanks.

“Well it usually goes one of two ways,” she took another bite, “You’ll either try to get me into bed, or try and teach me the ‘’error of my ways.” Take your pick.”

“Neither.” I poured sugar into my coffee and stirred it. I wasn’t a nice guy. I wasn’t someone she could tell all her dark secrets too, but I definitely wasn’t going to try and fuck her. Or preach at her.

She finished the first half of her grilled cheese, and wiped her greasy fingers on her dress. She turned around and watched the clock behind the counter for a few seconds before turning back. A man walked out of the diner, shoving his headphones over his ears as he disappeared into the desert dark.

“It’s 3.33AM.” She leant forwards and took a sip of her milkshake.

“Palindromic time,” I muttered.

“What?” She swirled the straw around in the nuclear coloured liquid.

“Things that are the same backwards as they are forwards.” I slurped a mouth full of coffee, sweet and bitter. “Like 2002, or Hannah.”

The coffee burnt my tongue, but I drank it anyway. I watched the crucifix tied around her neck, and the gold bamboo earrings dangling from her ears. She was someone you weren’t supposed to comprehend.

“Or Elle,” she said absently, and suddenly, I knew way more than I wanted to.