The lightning illuminates the night sky followed by cracks of thunder so close and unnerving that the hair on your arms is raised. It's 10:45 and your shift is about to end, the diner closing at 11. It's been a long day and your white sneakers are stained with coffee and dirt; they have made your feet sore and you're ready to shake your apron and skirt off. It's a uniform you don't hate, but it doesn't highlight your hips the way you would like.
This storm has been raging since 8pm, the water in the parking lot a little too high; you know you'll get your feet and shoes wet walking to your car. You look out the window, the reflection of the red open sign blinking almost outside your field of vision, to look at your car. A red Pontiac, not flashy, but reliable. I have to replace the rear tires soon, you thought to yourself. As you turn to begin cashing out and closing the register down, headlights become visible and a black sedan pulls into the parking lot, splashing water onto the front window of the building. As the water falls and your sight no longer obscured, you see it's a black BMW, the big one. "What do they call that one? Seven series?" You wonder out loud.
The driver side door flies open and I hop out, slam the door and run toward the entrance of the diner. Trying and failing to prevent the rain from soaking me. As I enter the door, the bell rings. It startles me a bit and as I look up, we make eye contact. It is obvious to me you are upset someone came in so close to closing time. You just bought a new vibrator the week before and have loved it ever since, you planned a date with it tonight after work. And you think to yourself "this guy better not keep me here much later" as you welcome me. "Hi, welcome to Shelly's diner. Would you like to sit at the counter or a booth?"
"Booth Please" I reply. "I am sorry it's so late, I've been on the road all day and I've just had enough of this rain. I don't need anything fancy. Do you have chicken noodle soup and maybe a BLT sandwich?" I try to wipe the rain away from my face and hair. But in just the few seconds I was in the rain, I'm soaked. My dark suit jacket is sticking to my body like a second-skin. I take off my jacket, revealing the starched, white dress shirt encapsulating my thick muscled arms. My collar is undone a bit, a loose tie.
I'm walking toward and sitting down the booth when you first notice: the bulging muscles of my arms and the tight, rain soaked shirt on my chest and back. "It's too late to turn the grill back on, but we do have some soup left. I'll bring a bowl over in a minute. Would you like some coffee?" You ask as your eyes drift up and down my body. "mmmm, he's a strapping young man, very handsome." you think to yourself.
"Yes, black" I reply. You turn to head back behind the counter and brew a fresh pot. As you walk I catch your backside out of the corner of my eye and am drawn to it. The light blue skirt, the one that waitresses in diners seem to have been wearing since the 1950's flows down your hips and drapes around your ass and thighs without showing off your figure, but teasing me with what lies beneath. The skirt sways back and forth as you walk, hiking up just an inch or two with each step, tantalizing me. I didn't notice before, but I notice now. This waitress is gorgeous, a MILF, attractive with nice hips, what look like big d-cup breasts, full luscious lips with cherry red lipstick and legs for days.
You come back with my coffee and soup a few minutes later. I try to grab my coffee mug from you and our hands touch. It lasted for less than a second but we lock eyes, and it felt like forever. A lonely, rain-filled, lighting-struck night with two strangers looking for something more, something raw, passionate and animalistic. That skin-to-skin contact, however brief, lit a fuse. This night, for the both of us felt electric. Independent of each other, we both have decided to submit to these passions that the world, the weather, the circumstances of life has placed upon us tonight.
I break eye contact, slowly moving my eyes down toward my coffee mug. But I stop. Your top has one too many buttons undone and more than a hint of cleavage is visible. I don't think I've ever been in a situation where this much sexual tension is hanging in the air with so few words said. "It seems pretty dead in here, why don't you join me?" I say to you. "Given that we are the only two in the diner, at 11PM at night in the middle of a thunderstorm, yes, I'd say it's pretty dead in here" is your reply as you slide into the booth opposite me.
As I'm eating, we start to chat. We start learning quite a bit about each other. Family, are we each married, what are we doing out on a night like this. I learn that you moved here to raise your children in a nice quite town with low crime. You were living in New York City, a professor at Columbia before you took some time off to raise your kids...and never went back to work. Your husband never believed you should be working anyway. But you had to take this job at the diner for two reasons: 1. There wasn't a college within 100 miles for you to teach at and 2. If you didn't get out of the house every so often, even for a menial job such as this, you would go insane. After a long pause in the conversation and a few spoonfuls' of my soup, I ask "Looks like this rain isn't going to stop any time soon. I would rather not continue driving in it, do you know if there is a hotel nearby?"
This tension, this attraction that has filled the air inside the diner as heavily as the rain outside is coming to a head in your mind. You know that if we just had a bit more time, perhaps away from the diner, you could take what has become a tedious conversation wrought with silent curiosity into a proper conversation over wine, perhaps with a more intimate ending...I wonder how those arms really look under that shirt... alas, there's not a hotel anywhere near here.
