The bell rang shrilly as she opened the door to the diner on the corner. For a second she stood on the doorstep and blinked before making her way to the counter. The diner was a narrow, rectangular room with booths along the windows facing the street. The sofas in the booths were made of green, worn-out leather, old and greasy from years of exposure to fried eggs and sweaty thighs. The barstools along the counter, which took up most of the room, had seats in the same old green leather. The counter itself was made of something resembling dark oak. Back in the day, when the diner was buzzing, stars stopped in on their way to the Broadway stages. It had been a nice-looking place. Left of the stars now were only the old black-and-white photographs on the greasy walls, the memories had left with the old owners. Instead there was a fat lady behind the counter with a name-tag spelling Rita on her prodigious chest.
At first glance she could have been part of the inventory. Her vast behind seemed grown into the chair she sat on, elbows glued to the counter. She looked as if she hadn’t shifted in years. She was watching a talk-show on a small portable television set on the counter below the shelves of glasses and plates, taking no notice of Vera as she sat down on one of the worn-out barstools. Vera glanced at a greasy menu. Pie. It was filled with pie. And burgers. Pie and burgers. No pasta or salad. It didn’t even appear that the pie or burger was served with a side salad. She scanned the counter. Not a vegetable in sight.
”Something wrong with the food?”
The grunt from the fat lady came so suddenly that Vera almost fell of her barstool.
“Do you serve any salad?”
”No. We serve food. And pie.”
Not once did the fat lady take her eyes off the screen. Vera looked at the menu again. She wasn’t really hungry but now that she was in here she had to order something. In any case, she didn’t know what else to do. She decided on key lime pie and coffee. Decaf.
She was uncomfortable. She wished she could take off the veil, but it was pinned to her head with so many hairpins she was afraid she would rip her scalp off if she tried to remove it. And the garter was itching on her thigh. ’Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.’ The dress was borrowed, the veil was new, she was old? Why did she have to go with a blue garter, she could just as easily have worn blue panties. Her eyes were blue, was that not enough? Her hair was pinned up so tight her eyes watered if she turned her head too much to any side.
”You know you’ll get that pretty dress greasy sittin’ on that chair.” Eyes still glued to the TV.
”That’s alright. It’s already greasy from the cab.” She looked down at the green substance now quivering in front of her next to a cup of coffee.
”What’s this?”
”Pie.”
She tried to light a cigarette, but her lighter went on strike. Again. Why could the world never co-operate, was it too much to ask? She peered around the diner, searching for matches. None. She tried to make out whether there were any behind the counter. The fat lady was still glued to the talkshow and it was impossible to draw her attention away from the socially impaired guests loudly sharing their lives and agonies with anyone who would listen. Just as well probably, Vera wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to use anything that had visited the pockets of the greasy whale seemingly stranded in front of her. She turned her head to the only other customer. He looked strange somehow, but she couldn’t really put her finger on it.
”Excuse me, do you have a light?”
He looked up and the intense look in his eyes caught her off guard. The rest of him seemed so, well, listless. His skin had a strange grey tone and his hair was ragged. His clothes looked as if they’d never been washed. But his eyes. They were bright green. The rest of him had a greyish brown mud-colour, but his eyes were the color of summer grass. His face void of expression, his eyes seemed to laugh at her, in a sort of disillusioned way.
”Sure.” He took his coffee and moved to the stool beside her. She braced for a stench like the garbage in the alleys behind her house. But it didn’t come. The man looked like something the cat dragged in, but he smelled divine. He lit two cigarettes and gave her one.
”Are you getting married or do you always dress like that on Thursdays?”
Why on earth would anyone ask such a strange question? Then she remembered. She was wearing a wedding dress that was too small and a blue garter that itched something dreadful.
”I’m always dressed like this on Thursdays. Just in case.”
”Fair enough. Would you settle for a quickie in the can?”
”What?”
”Nevermind. That pie any good?”