Fiction logo

The Diner

It’s always a diner. The kind that sells the honest, no-frills kind of fare.

By Lottie FinklairePublished 3 years ago 3 min read
Like
The Diner
Photo by Louis Hansel on Unsplash

This one is blank with white and pink Lino, tables, and chairs. The windows peppered with rain coming in off the North Sea. No-fuss. Squeaky clean. Cheap and cheerful, somehow.

Sometimes I think it’s because he’s still trying to detox his old life from his system. Big Christmas trees, fancy chocolates, and walk-in wardrobes always seemed to fit him like someone else suit. They were my mother's influence, she would never have picked this place. She might have eaten here, but she would have acted personally offended. I don’t mind it. Eating greasy food is something we do now. I do it partly to show him I’m still on the ground, I’m not like her. So today, I am happy with fried eggs, bacon, and hash browns for lunch. He has the same. It feels good to have the same.

We talk about lots of things. His house’s windows are drafty, the neighbors have dry rot, they’re worried about it spreading. The new kitten keeps sneaking in at 5 am to play on their faces. He tells me all of this in his well-practiced low grumble, heavy sarcasm as the flash in the pan. You have to watch carefully for it because his humor is not a performer. I listen to him complain about the kitten only half earnestly. I know him better than that.

For a long time, my father was a vast frozen lake. Impenetrable and bare. A surface I could fling myself against and still find no crack. No yield. No matter how hard I tried. The lake had no room for me. Eventually, at some point in my late twenties, I had a boyfriend who came with me to visit him in the house with the drafty windows. When we left, I saw my Dad look after us. It was as if he had been holding something in his hands that was no longer there, and suddenly, he didn’t know what to do with them. I realized that not all lakes freeze solid. Deep down, the fish still swim.

So I listen to the kitten's guilty offenses and know that they’ve all been pardoned. It takes training to know that kind of thing. I don’t think he’ll ever see it. But that’s the secret to that sort of thing, be okay with them not seeing it. See yourself.

The talk turns to me. He read the short story. ‘What did you think?’ I see the ice shift a little thicker. He majored in English Language and Literature. He nearly wrote a novel when I was young. He tells me it was well structured, but I used too many adjectives - like I was telling him what to imagine. It’s hard to be 'a great’, a voice that lingers for centuries after, ‘you have to agonize over every word,’ he says. ‘Even then, it still might not be right.’ Suddenly I’m on the surface of the lake again, in danger of doing the cracking so that at least someone does. But today will be different, I tell myself.

I look at his face, soft, fleshy, fine lines. Sharp eyes, but behind them, concern, real concern. Something wounded. The fish still swim. I realize why he never finished that book. ‘I’ll take it as a compliment.’ I say, ‘I’m not trying to be a great, it’s not worth the agony.’ He laughs, relieved, I think, for more than me. He tells me well done for writing it, and suddenly I find that I don’t need him to say that any more. Not at all.

I finish my hash brown. He drinks his coffee.

Young Adult
Like

About the Creator

Lottie Finklaire

www.lottiefinklaire.com

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.