The sun glared off the asphalt and through the windows. The diner was deserted, and the harsh light of noon only served to emphasize that. Irma gazed down at the cherry of her cigarette, watching the red-orange glow eat it slowly. She tapped her fingers in time with Peggy Lee's sympathy, knowing just how it felt to walk the floor and watch the door. Boredom was a way of life out here. The clock on the wall read 2:30, and Irma had to sigh. Another four hours in her shift, another four hours with nothing to do. Neither Stavros the cook nor Ricky the busboy had bothered to show up today. Irma suspected something her mother had told her about Greek men, but it didn't really matter. They'd only made four plates up all week. Irma was confident that she could handle anything that came up, and she knew nothing would.
Outside, the highway stretched to the horizon in both directions. There were places to be at either end, but the diner was smack in the middle of nowhere. There were signs for Hidden Valley, a housing project which never got started, splashed along the side of road. Irma supposed that's why they'd built the diner here. The signage was faded now and shovels had never gone in the dirt. But somehow, this place kept its doors open. Part of Irma was just glad for the pay cheque. Part of her hoped this pseudo-prison would burn to the ground.
She rolled the radio dial from the jazz station to a rockabilly one, and watched a car in the distance kick up dust in time with the beat. She'd already polished all the flatware, cleaned out the drain's trap, and refolded all the napkins. Irma had nothing left to do but compare the trails of cigarette smoke to the rising cloud of the oncoming car. She indulged in mild surprise as the blue chevy wheeled into the dirt lot. There'd be something to do afterall. She stubbed out her cigarette, checked her uniform, and tore off the used page of her orderbook.
He was tall, easily over six feet. His hair was jet black, with the first subtle traces of salting. His face was angular, with a bristle of a beard, suggesting he'd been on the move for a few days. His denim jacket wore the dust of the dry summer air, and his slacks were rumpled. His eyes were slightly red, and circles suggested themselves in his sockets. His gaze was still sharp though, as Irma felt him drink in the details of the place. He sauntered up to the counter and sat down.
Irma had to admit that he was a fair sight prettier than the few regulars they had out here. Still, Irma reminded herself, he was just a customer. She came over, adjusting the wide, stylized glasses she wore, "What can I get you, sweetheart?"
"Well, aren't you familiar?" He replied, flashing a her a playful smile. His whole face ignited with it, and Irma felt her heart skip a beat. He was gorgeous. You could miss it under the travel he wore, but he was an immaculate creature. Irma flushed, and he laughed softly, "Coffee, darlin'. Black."
"Coming right up." She said, composing herself. She grabbed the pot and scolded her foolishness. This man was not here to sweep her off her feet. And god only knew where he'd come from. She brought the coffee over, setting it down beside his manicured hand, "Anything else, Mister."
"Robert, Irma." He said reading her name tag, "You can call me Robert. And I'll just look over the menu for a spell, if you don't mind."
"Ain't like I got much else to do here, Robert." Irma replied as she stepped into the back. She undid a button on her blouse, releasing the heat Robert was inspiring in her. A flush had risen on Irma's petite chest. She fanned herself for a few moments, trying to let her mind go blank. She heard the song on the radio change, which made her worry she was taking too long, being too conspicuous. She grabbed a washcloth and headed out the far door to busy herself with tables that already shone in the summer sun.
She stalked through the dining room, keeping herself to the corner away from Robert. She heard Johnny Cash strumming through the radio, her own swishing across the surface of the tables, and the occasional slurp of Robert's coffee. She felt possessed by sexual tension. "I must be imagining it." she told herself, "it's just a foolish dream. Stop it!" Her mind tried to assert her reality, that the mundane, banal repetition. She was just being silly. Irma tried to listen to her common sense, but her spirit yearned for another possibility. She had stopped wiping the table, though she hadn't realized it. She could feel Robert's eyes upon her, and she flushed with embarrassment. She rounded on him and snapped, "Looking at something, Robert?"
"Uh, you have a run in your stocking is all." he pointed at her left calf casually as he took a long drink of his coffee.
