Coffee Grounds

“What can I do for you, sir? Cup of coffee? Coke? Or you one of them nervy ones that just drinks water?” I whip my head up from the ad-covered placemat and slowly take in the woman with the fiery twangy voice. Her deep brown hair is loosely tied back in a ponytail, inviting stray curly strands to cascade around her pensive face, caught somewhere between agitation and exhaustion. She leans her back against the metal counter, that rattles like a loose fan belt as she shifts around in the canary-yellow uniform that clings to her womanly shape. A beauty like her must garner a hundred catcalls a day from the hodge-podge of rough-faced men scattered around this blip of a restaurant. “Sir...? I don’t have all day here. Ten of them are waiten behind you, so you’d better hop to it or else I’m gonna leave you to think about whatever you’ve been thinkin bout behind them sad blue eyes and that scruff of a beard. You gotta trim that sucker cuz you look like you rolled outta the woods.” Stroking my face, I feel the patchy tufts that have sprouted all over after three days without shaving.

I spotted The Sunrise Diner on the corner of the main four-way stop in Hurtstown, Missouri, right across from Harley Brothers Laundromat and Dr. George Bacon’s Family Practice—boasting services for both humans and their pets. Flower boxes overflowing with petunias and marigolds hung under every window of the diner and a red and white striped overhang hung above the screen doorway, which continuously swung open and closed as men dressed in various jump-suits and plaid shirts walked in and out. As I pulled my 1986 red Camaro into the driveway, the gravel crunching with each turn of the wheels, a faint scent of bacon grease and burned coffee trickled in my car windows.

“Oh, sorry, ma’am. I guess I’ll have...” The flimsy cardboard menu dances in my nervous fingers and I scrutinize each line, while she taps her ballpoint pen on the counter. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like a clock. Reminding me of every moment passing by. Time spent doing what? Two months driving across the country to find a new world. Driving across the country to get away from an old world. Tap. Tap. Dammit, where are you going, Daniel? That’s what Katelyn asked me before she got on the train. And I didn’t know what to say.


“What do you wanna be when you grow up? A trickle of smoke mixed with the words as they left Katelyn’s red-rimmed mouth, and she delicately handed me the joint. Inhaling deeply, I looked down at the grassy ground below us and wondered if I would land on two-feet if I jumped from this two-story dorm window?

“Huh, did you ask me something?” I tapped the joint on the clay ashtray that Katelyn’s younger sister, Jocelyn, made in her fifth grade art class. Of course, it was supposed to be a “bowl,” but the edges, misshapen by hyperactive adolescent hands, made the perfect resting spots for a stray clove cigarette or a joint saved for later.

“What? Pot make you deaf, too?” A hearty laugh escaped Katelyn’s slightly-chapped lips.

“Sorry, that was kinda harsh. Damn. I love this stuff.” I held the joint for Katelyn, as I filled the air with smoky rings. She waved it off, her neon-orange fingernails catching the little bit of sunlight left at dusk.

“Do you ever just wonder about what your purpose is in life? Not like what you want to do, but what you are supposed to do. You know, like your calling. Your purpose in life. Like you are some...” Closing my eyes, I absorbed all that’s left of the smoldering nub. The smoke leaked from the corners of my thin lips, transforming Katelyn into an abstract painting. “...like you are an integral part of the world and if you don’t fulfill that role you will somehow upset the balance.”

“Okay, now you’re starting to sound like some George Lucas movie.” Katelyn reached out and fluffed up my shaggy dark brown hair with her piano-trained fingers, their strength their pressing against my skull. “Don’t worry so much, Danny Boy. I know you’ve got it in there.” A slightly chilled hand rested against my chest.

“But why can’t I figure out what it is? Katie, I have no idea what I want to do. What if I graduate and go onto to law school and become that great politician that Mother wants me to be?” Wrapping my hands around her narrow waist, I pulled her toward me, her plaid flannel shirt and her short blonde hair flapping in the slight breeze. I pressed her head against my white t-shirt, feeling her breath like a furnace on my chest. “I just don’t know if I could be that person? I don’t feel him anywhere inside of me. I just don’t know what I feel like being and I’m scared that I never will.”

“Okay, I’m gonna to deal with you like I deal with my five year old niece. You got five seconds...five...four...” She stops as I glance up. Her lips are pressed in a tight bright red line of mounting annoyance. My sister Megan got the same look on her freckled face when she dragged poor Frankie Powers into my bedroom and pointed to the crushed goldfish crackers plastered on his hooded sweatshirt like tiny orange scales. At the tender age of five, I didn’t understand why my seventeen year old sister didn’t appreciate my goldfish cracker gifts. I mean, I liked goldfish crackers, why didn’t she? My siblings never really connected with me, nor did they really try. I guess, that being twelve and fourteen years older meant that they weren’t required to put forth the effort.

“I’ll just take a coffee.” The menu hangs limply in the air as Marguerite’s large, round eyes analyze me. Starting with my holey black Converse, they travel up my now loose-fitting faded jeans, past my plain white t-shirt and braided leather necklace I got in Des Moines—oh, that woman had the most luscious lips– and fix upon my face, as if she is trying to connect the freckles peppering my nose. Her pensive face slackens for a minute, revealing just a sliver of emotion in the slight droop of her mouth. Suddenly, her eyes snap closed and she shakes her head, as if she is trying to forget something. Just as I open my mouth, her face tightens back up and her eyes fly open.

“Coffee? After all that, you just wanna damn...”

“Watch your tongue, Marguerite ” yells a husky voice. I look up and see a white-bearded man through the pass-through in the wall, with years of managing a meager restaurant reflected in the sweat and wrinkles on his face. Marguerite rolls her eyes and the sun trickling in through the front windows accentuates the deep jade hidden within their depths.

“Sorry, ma’am, I’m not much of one for the whole breakfast thing.” I smack the menu down on the counter, causing the salt and pepper shakers to clink in reply.

“You’re one of them Northerners, aren’t you? They never want any food to eat. Just get me a coffee, they say. And, of course, it’s gotta be black. Don’t be wantin to be puttin any of that sugar in there. And heaven forbid I splash a bit of cream in there. Might be fifty calories in that. Then they gonna complain that they gotta get back on that treadmill. ‘Gotta keep the figure,’ they say. All you the same.” Marguerite pauses for a moment, her face, burning red with passionate anger. For some reason, I want to kiss her. To feel the fire burn my lips and ignite the part within in me that’s been dead since that day two months ago, when I pulled out of my parents’ driveway for the last time. She taps me on the shoulder with her notepad, disrupting the fantasy.

“Oh jeez, sorry.” I clear my throat. “Well, you’ve convinced me. So Ms. Marguerite, what’s good here?” Marguerite composes herself and her face relaxes into an excited smile.

“Well, nothin here’s great...”

“Marguerite, you’re supposed to be sellin, not scarin ” yells the voice from the kitchen.

“Oh, shut your trap, Terrence. You keep to the food, and I’ll keep to the schmoozin.” She flips her ponytail back over her shoulder and starts tapping the pen again. “He’s such a grouch sometimes. Though I guess he’s got reasons.” She leans in towards my right ear and my nose twitches as the acid smell of cheap perfume wafts my direction. “His wife left him last year. Up and took their baby and their truck to who knows where. Rumor is she ran off with his cousin, but who really knows with the way gossip gets round. He hasn’t had any action since.” She pulls away and winks, her heart-shaped face filled with the glow of mischievous pleasure.

“Poor guy.” My stomach growls. Guess Marguerite was right. God, I can’t even remember the last time I ate. Maybe somewhere around Oklahoma City. Yeah, it was some little pizza parlor with the biggest damn slices of gooey cheese pizza and the sweetest old couple. The woman was German and told me all about how she immigrated when she was twelve years old and how her father had put her in an English speaking high school and told her to suck it up and learn English. God, that had to have been two days ago.

“Then again, he’d been hittin her for sometime. We saw all them bruises when she’d come into work. It’s really no surprise that she flew the coop. I woulda done the same myself. Plus, there ain’t no love there. You can’t make a marriage outta frying bacon while you’re bangin on the kitchen counter,” she whispers. “Anyways, nuff of me chattin. We gotta get you some food.” She snags the menu from my hands. “I’m puttin you down for The Leo. Best thing on the menu. Fried eggs, bacon, toast, and some of our good ol’ down South cheese grits. I know it ain’t no fruit platter, but it’ll fill you up and keep you goin all day long.”

When I was five, I ran away from home for the first time. I’m not exactly sure what finally drove me to do it. Probably some run in with my witch of a nanny, Ms. Durge. That woman lived up to her name. Dull and full of bitterness, Ms. Durge found delight in destroying my imagination with stories of her childhood in the slums of New York, like how she earned money delivering newspapers to drug dealers and how her father was a drunk who used to hit her with a sock full of bird seed. If I fell asleep or showed any signs of boredom, she smacked me with a magazine. Every morning, before Mother retreated to her sun porch, where she spent the afternoons by herself, I begged her to get a new nanny. But Mother just waved me off with her bejeweled hand and told me to suck it up with those thin pink lips. That’s always how my parents treated me, as if I should be more appreciative of my life. Sometimes, I feel they blamed me for being an accident child.

Using a green crayon and my Power Rangers coloring book, I constructed a map consisting of a long squiggly line that ran over the pink ranger’s face and traveled from a circle to a star. The circle was my house, which lingered on the outskirts of the town of Adonis, Pennsylvania. (I like to tell people that Adonis has a small amount of people, but a large amount of money.) The star was Jordan River, which was a half mile down the road from my house and the only redeemable quality of Adonis. I caught my first fish, wrote my first story, and lost virginity next to that river. Sometimes, I feel like the Jordan knows me better than anyone else in the Compson family. Before I met Katelyn, the river was the only one who ever took the time to listen.

The next morning, I woke up right before sunrise and grabbed my stuffed guinea pig Franklin that my Aunt Victoria bought me in France, three Hostess cupcakes, a pocket-sized flashlight, and my lavender baby blanket. Balling everything into one giant glob, I shoved it into my Mighty Max backpack and walked out the front door.

By the time the warm summer sun was up, I was already settled by the river. The mud squished between my toes as I crouched at the water’s edge, merrily fishing for translucent crayfish as they pranced across the slimy river floor. I was completely happy. Little did I know, only an hour later, I’d be sitting in the police station, sadly sucking on a cherry-flavored lollipop as a chubby officer with a lisp phoned my parents. Though my escape turned out to be a bust, I always held onto that feeling of freedom in my heart.


“Reetey, whatcha doin’ with that boy? We want some eggs over ‘ere ” hollers a burly man. He looks like a trucker with his rough face framed in a scraggly orange beard and blazing blue eyes peeping out from under his dingy green John Deere hat. He’s the type of person that Father loved to pick out in a grocery store and then proceed to loudly explain why I shouldn’t converse with him. You don’t want them to bring you down to their level, he’d say. Life was all about levels to Father. If you weren’t on his level or above, you weren’t worthy of his acknowledgment. The day I stood in the driveway and told him I was tired of being stuffed with political theory bull shit and that I wanted to drop out of Princeton and travel the country, he interrogated me with his beady blue eyes and told me that I had left his level and, therefore, his life.

“I just want some time to figure things out. You know as well as I do that I’m not cut out to be a lawyer or a politician or whatever it is that Mother envisions me to be.”

“I’ll have no son of mine becoming a bum. You’ll suck it up and drive right back to that university and get yourself a real education. It’s time for you to grow up and face reality.” My father ran his fingers through the brown wig that Mother had bought him on his sixtieth birthday. No one ever had the heart to tell him that it was perpetually a little off-center.
“I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep faking who I am. I just want to be happy.”

“So what makes you happy then, Daniel? Perpetually pissing your supportive parents off?”

“Supportive? Do you call dictating my life being supportive? Never once have I made a decision for myself. It’s always, ‘well, Daniel, you should do this’ or more like ‘Daniel, this is what you are doing.’ I have no idea who I am and I just need to figure that out before I can go any further. Can’t you understand that?”

“Leave...”

“What?”

“Get the fuck off my driveway. I don’t need riffraff cluttering the yard. It’s embarrassing.”

“Fine. I’ll get off your fucking driveway and out of your fucking life. Does that make you happy? It’s what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it? No more fucking Daniel to deal with anymore.” Father grunted and turned around and silently walked up the driveway. As I watched him walk away, I waited for him to turn around and say that he still cared about me or even to just wave goodbye. Yet, his eyes fixed forward, as he typed in the code for the security system: Seven, two, eight, six. My birthday.

“FUCK YOU ” I screamed as I watched him walk inside, slamming the large oak door behind him.


“Shut your yap, John. He was here first so, he’s gonna get fed first. Didn’t your momma teach you anythin bout patience?” snaps Marguerite. John opens his mouth to defend himself, the words hanging on the tip of his tongue, but closes it quickly, submitting to Marguerite’s rebuke.

“Sorry, I’m such a pain. You should go along and help them.” I hold the menu out to her and she snatches it up.

“Don’t worry bout it, honey. It’s good for John to learn how to wait. Plus, it’s not too often I get someone new to talk to round here. We don’t get too many visitors in Hurtstown. Then again, I don’t blame ‘em. We ain’t exactly Atlanta.” She winks again, allowing some of her hidden youthfulness to shine through.

“Believe me, Atlanta is overrated. I find these little joints so much more exciting and I feel like I actually get to talk to real people rather than people who’ve been programmed to be something else.”

“I’m with you there. Bout five years ago, when I was twenty-five and still fresh-faced...”

“Oh come on. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Don’t you be butterin me all up. You’re gonna have to try harder if you wanna get me in bed.”

“Oh really...”

“Oh yeah, honey. We’ll have this conversation when we close at two.”

“God, you’re a feisty one.”

“I gotta be to handle these sorts.” Her gaze travels across packed room, taking in the menagerie of work-worn faces. The jade eyes settle on me and we hang there for a second as if time has ceased to exist. Suddenly, the awkwardness of the moment overcomes me, and I shift my gaze down to the placemat again. Marguerite shakes her head and scribbles on her notepad. “So you’re gonna have some coffee and The Leo then?”

“Sounds like a plan. Thank you, Marguerite.” Marguerite scurries off to John’s table. My eyes study this elusive woman. The dusty Keds, their rubber soles squeaking against the tile floor with each heavy step. Thick, alabaster calves shaped by hours, days, and years of making a living on the movement of her feet. The succulently round hips leading to a slight waist like a maternal goddess from a Greek myth. And the ample breasts…Marguerite, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed art thou amongst women…


“I’ve got something to tell you,” squealed Katelyn as she burst through the kitchen door, her round face aglow.

“Please don’t tell me you’re pregnant. I really don’t think my seed should be spread,” I called from the purple loveseat, bleeding stuffing from its threadbare armrests. I snap Sarte’s Being and Nothingness closed and set it on the rickety coffee table.

“Honestly, I don’t think either one of us should reproduce, and together? God, that would be one fucked up kid.” Katelyn flopped on the couch next to me, her now cotton-candy pink hair smacking me in the face.

“Mmm, I just love the taste of hair in the afternoon.” Reaching my arm around her bare shoulders, I pulled her closer. “So what is this ‘something?’ You didn’t make another woman pass out, did you?”

“Jesus, let me tell the story jabber jaws. I got into law school ” Katelyn wriggled out of my grasp and jumped up off the couch. “At University of Michigan God, Ann Arbor, just the city I’ve been needing. You know what? They only have a fine for smoking pot? It’s wild. I love it.”

My mouth froze, as the words piled up in the back of my throat. Katelyn stared at me, as if her confused gaze would summon a reply from within me.

“Well, thank you for the congratulations, asshole ” yelled Katelyn, her pale face red with anger. She whipped around and stormed toward the kitchen.

“Wait.” I jumped off the couch and stubbed my toe on the coffee table. “Goddammit ”

Katelyn stopped and turned around, watching me hop around on one foot, while rubbing my swelling toe.

“I get it, Daniel.”

“Get what?”

“You’re jealous.”

“What, come on. I was just shocked.”

“Bullshit. I can see it. You’re jealous because I actually know what I want to do with my life and you’re still sitting around reading books and skipping class.” My head drooped, as the weight of Katelyn’s words pressed down upon me. “Daniel, just for once, could you get out of your head and be happy for me?”

I reached my arms out to Katelyn and she walked toward me, settling into their grasp. “I’m really sorry, Katie. I am excited for you, really. You’re gonna make one damn good lawyer. D.C. had better look out.” Laying my chin on her head, I feel the tears welling in the corners of my eyes.

“Here you go ” A ceramic mug slams down on the counter in front of me, splattering my hand with a few drops of black sludge.

“Thank you.” I whip around, hoping to catch a glance of Marguerite, but she’s already across the room, serving a group of men in stark white shirts and skinny black ties. It seems funny to see business men like that out in these parts. I wonder what they do? Pig consulting? Then again, I’ve come to realize, you can do about anything. When I was at a pharmacy purchasing toothpaste in Los Angeles—what a superficial place—I waited in line with a short, balding man with an undecipherable accent who was a ‘shoe de-wrinkler.’ Motioning with his leathery hands, he showed me how he smoothed out the wrinkles with a special little iron. He pointed to the bubbled, white scars that dotted his hands. I better now. No burns, he told me right before he bought a little bottle of witch hazel. Good for cuts, he chirped as he stroked his face. As I looked down at my Converse, I realized how interconnected we all are. Yet, I still couldn’t seem to figure out where I fit into the scheme.

“How did you become a shoe-dewrinkler?” I inquired as we walked out of the pharmacy.

“I need money and cousin told me there was job.” He smiled a big toothy grin. “And it good job. Good people. You work?”

“Not now. Kinda trying to figure that out.”

“Ahh.” He placed his hand on my bare arm. “You great man. Just lost. You find it. It right here” He motioned to his heart. “Move it here.” Then he pointed to his head. That’s probably the best advice anyone has ever given me. I just haven’t figured out how to follow it.


I take a sip of the coffee, gagging as the vile taste of burned beans hits my tongue. Tastes just like the coffee Katelyn used to make. She could never get the balance right, and the coffee was either dirty dishwater or motor oil. Every day, I’d pour it into my Frosty the Snowman thermal mug, dump it out halfway to class, and buy a grande dark roast at Starbucks. I never had the heart to tell her. Waking up every morning to the smell of ruined coffee reminded me that there was someone in the world who truly cared about me.

“So what brings a boy like you to these parts?” I nearly jump out of my seat, barely managing to keep all of my coffee in the cup. Marguerite perches herself on the stool next to me.

“How in the...you blow me away, Marguerite. You must be some kind of super hero.”

“Honey, I ain’t nothin of the sorts. I’m just one busy woman. Fallin behind is the death of a waitress, and there ain’t no use speedin up the end of my life.” She grabs a fresh coffee mug, flips it over, and pours herself a cup of the sludge. Wrapping her hands around the body of the cup, she closes her eyes as the warmth seeps through her nearly transparent skin. My mother has that same skin. Whenever we’d go to the beach, she always complained about how sensitive her skin was and how she had to use SPF 75 sun screen specially purchased from some place in Canada for an unbelievable amount of money . No matter what, there was always something for her to complain about, whether it was the mole on her forehead, the doors my father left open, the retail ads that flooded our mailbox, or the younger son who never managed to become the lawyer/politician she’d always imagined he’d be. No, nothing in the world was ever good enough for Emma Compson.

“Always a comeback, huh?” I say as I swirl the coffee around in my cup.

“Hey, I ain’t never let any comment go. Believe me, I got somethin to say bout pretty much everythin. Ol’ Terrence tells me I got too much to say.” Marguerite pulls her hair out of her ponytail and runs her fingers through it. I’ve got to use all the force in my body to keep myself from reaching out and grabbing it. Hair’s always been my weakness with women. Hair and boobs. But hair first. I love to get my fingers all wrapped up in it and rub my face in all that silkiness. Oh, and making love, there’s nothing sexier than feeling her long locks fall all over your face or whipping in the air with each thrust. Katelyn’s hair was so thick and it wrapped
up in my fingers just right.

“Not at all. You’re kind of refreshing. Where I come from, honesty is pretty much discouraged.”

“Well, thank you, sir. That is a kind comment. Not the best I’d ever heard, but nice.”

“You and your honesty. You’re something else, Marguerite.” I take a slug of coffee and hold it in my mouth, letting the bitterness hit each taste bud.

“That’s right. I ain’t gonna beat round the bush. I’m gonna tell you straight what I think. My daddy said, ‘There ain’t no use in tellin lies. No matter what, they always comin back to bite you square in the ass.’”

“Smart man.”

“Sometimes. God rest his soul.”

“Oh, sorry. He passed away?”

“You sure are a quick one, sir.” Marguerite takes a sip of coffee and looks up at the Coke bottle clock on the wall behind the pie carousel. “Lord, you’re makin me talk bout myself and skirtin round the question I give you. What’re you doin here, sir? You got somethin to hide, ain’t you? Don’t you worry bout that. Half the men I see in a day gotta rap sheet. The way I see it, it’s your life to live. I have no need to be judgin it, and I got no right to be. I don’t want someone judgin me, so I ain’t gonna judge them.”

“Marguerite, what in the world you doin? Chatterin to that good for nothin and not workin. This ain’t no desk job. Get off you duff and get to work Food’s up ” Yells Terrence.

“Fine. Don’t have a cow, Terrence. I was just takin me a break for a hot second and havin me a cup of coffee. Don’t be gettin your panties all in a bind.” Marguerite winds her hair up into a loose bun. She takes one last sip of coffee and bangs the cup down on the counter. “Aight, I’ll be back with your eats in justa sec.”

Marguerite saunters toward the pass-through, shaking her ass, as if she knows I’m staring. I shake my head and smile, then I fish around in my pants pocket, producing a stub of a yellow pencil. I pull a wad of paper napkins out of the dispenser and start scribbling away.


May 17th, 2009
Location: Hurtstown, Missouri
Miles Traveled: 5,478
States Visited: 20
Marguerite. Marguerite. Who's this woman? There's something about her that I just can’t shake. I know she's beautiful. That’s obvious. But there is something else. There is something real about her. There is something that...



“You’d better clear out them scribbles, Shakespeare, if you be wantin your eats.” Marguerite smacks a steaming plate of breakfast eats in front of me, each of them glistening with a fine coating of grease and filling my nose with a down home smell that reminds me of my days down South with Great Grandma McHenry. Whenever I went to visit her in Savannah, she’d serve me elaborate homemade breakfasts in bed, and then we’d spend every afternoon watching cheesy soap operas and playing solitaire. Sometimes, I feel like she was the only family member who ever loved me or, at least, pretended to love me.

“Thank you. It looks lovely.”

“Lovely? I wouldn’t be so poetic. Eggs ‘n such aren’t deservin of such words…wait, I don’t think I even got your name?”

“Daniel.”

“Okay, Daniel, enjoy your meal.” Marguerite smiles, her bright red lips glistening with a fresh coat of lip-gloss.


The second time I tried to run away from home, I was fifteen. Again, there was no one catalyst, but an accumulation of ridiculously shitty things that happened in the course of a few weeks. First, my girlfriend, Jennifer, broke up with me on a sheet of lined paper duct-taped to my locker. She’d been sleeping with the senior class president, who was already dating the captain of the girls’ basketball team, and Jennifer needed more time to be his “girl on the side.” Then, my dog, Starsky, the only member of the family that I actually got along with was run over and killed by my bratty eight-year-old nephew, J.C., while he was tearing around on his brand-new lightening-yellow Schwinn. As I held the trembling ball of fur in my arms, J.C. walked up to me and laughed, as if he was proud of his kill. Demon child. Just like my tight-ass brother Ned. It’s not surprising that J.C. is going to study criminal law, too. The Compsons are a freaking law dynasty, which is really to say that we’re cold-hearted schmucks deep down. I’d like to say that I have more of my mother’s McHenry in me, but I’m starting to see that I just as much of an asshole as any of them.

If those two incidences weren’t enough, Megan, who just happened to be the favorite Compson child, well, okay, not exactly the favorite, but the most accomplished in the family. Megan has won awards in music, writing, mathematics, etc., which means that she’s the perfect trump card for the ‘who has the best children discussions’ at Mother and Father’s—really Mother’s—highly calibrated bi-weekly neighborhood dinner parties. Anyway, Saint Megan came home from Madagascar, where she’d been doing research for her dissertation on something to do with lemur evolution, with a man six years her senior and a gold band on her finger. Oh, and the kicker, she’d forgotten to mention the above to Mother. Bad idea. Really bad idea. Really, really bad idea. If I had a choice of having an atomic bomb dropped on me or dealing with Mother upset, I’d take the bomb in a heartbeat. At least it’d be quick and painless.

Thus, Mother was sent into absolute “pity mode” and resorted to lying in her bedroom in her faux-fur lined neon-pink house coat mourning the loss of her precious daughter, as if Megan had died instead of eloped. Since I was the only child still at home and Father spent most nights screwing his law clerks on his desk, I was stuck dealing with the whining pile of woe.

After two days of listening to Mother’s tearful recountings of the “good days” of Megan’s life, I’d enough and booked a seat on a train to Chicago. I’d delusions of camping out in a park and writing a groundbreaking work on philosophy in the modern world. That night, I filled my backpack with a few pairs of boxers and socks, On the Genealogy of Morality and Notes From the Underground, a compass, three-hundred dollars from my independently run essay-writing business, two journals, and a box of chocolate-chip granola bars. My friend Kev was all prepared to drive me to the train station instead of school the next morning and concocted a story about a project at his house to buy me a night. I was going to be free again. Or so I thought.

Then the next day, Kevin called me completely distraught. His dad had been killed in a head-on collision on the way to work that morning. Obviously, I couldn’t complain about that, nor could I leave my only friend alone. Thus, I watched my grand plans spin down the toilet bowl.


As a couple hours pass by, I continue to sip coffee and fill napkins with the stories I’ve encountered along the wide open road. I wrote about the little girl with blonde pigtails that stuck straight out from her head and eyes as blue as ocean water. We met at a rest area near Jackson, Missouri and I taught her how to make a whistle with a blade of grass. Then I wrote about Sandy, “the lone street worker” in Springfield, Illinois, she told me. Her long black hair glimmered, while she stood on a street corner in a tiny pink mini skirt, a shimmery silver tank top, and a pair of black boots that came up to her knees. Sandy looked so vulnerable as her big brown eyes wore a look fear, while her mouth wore a fake smile. I pulled up and using my parents’ cash, I bought her for the evening. We went to Burger King, and ate Whoppers and chocolate shakes, while laying on the hood of my car in an abandoned parking lot. She told me how she’d been thrown out by her parents because they found her stash of coke in her pink piggy bank. So she went to live with an aunt in Albuquerque, who turned out to be crazy and whipped her with a giant flyswatter. After only a couple weeks, Sandy ran off with a dread-locked drug dealer, but he left her in Springfield. She’d run into a convenience store to buy a couple Milky Way bars and when she came out, he was gone. Thus, she used what little money she had left to buy a wardrobe at the Salvation Army and then went to the streets. She was only seventeen. When I’d met her, she’d only been at it for a few days and the only client she’d gotten was a bald man with a fuzzy gray mustache, who wanted a hand job. After a few hours, she begged me to take her back or at least let her “do something” for me. But I just didn’t have the heart to put her back on that corner. So I gave her two-
hundred dollars and dropped her at a halfway house. I’ll never know if she went in or not, but I can only hope.


Soon cramps take over my fingers and I set my pencil down and take a gander at the restaurant. A dozen booths line the perimeter, half them occupied by burly men in blue jeans, flannel button-ups, and ballcaps promoting various heavy machinery companies. The other half were empty, minus a petite old lady in a neat tan skirt and white blouse. Her hair is hidden under a floral bonnet and a cream-colored shawl is pinned around her shoulders. Danielle Steel’s The Kiss trembles between her spindly fingers. Marguerite zips out of the kitchen with a pot of coffee and pours the woman another cup. Setting the pot down on the table, Marguerite dives into an animated conversation with the woman. I strain to listen, but only manage to pick up something about begonias and robins. My eyes fall upon Marguerite’s face and she glances up, catching me in the act. I quickly look away and pretend to be scribbling again.

Slowly, I raise my head, like a robber trying to avoid being caught, and continue to scan the premises. In the center of the restaurant, there are four large rectangular tables. One is occupied by the “pig consultants” I’d mentioned earlier, which are now in a deep discussion over sheets of paper that are spread out in front of them. The next table is full of ladies with perfectly fluffed hair and plastic name-tags, presumably hairstylists. One of them, with red-orange hair and a large gap in her teeth, is recounting a story about a man who had a spider living in his hair, The last two tables are devoid of people, minus a young, pink-clad waitress with sandy brown hair woven into a long braid that runs down to the middle of her back, who is clearing dirty dishes off of one of them. The girl’s uniform hangs limply on her ruler-shaped frame and her legs look like they could break in two. She turns around and I catch a glimpse of her long face and dull green eyes. God, she can’t be more than sixteen. Marguerite shuffles over to the waitress and leans in toward her ear. She looks up again and catches me once more. I give up pretending and shrug, and Marguerite smiles and shakes her head in reply. I turn back to my napkins and continue to write.


“Whatcha writing?” asked Katelyn as hopped off the top rung of wooden ladder up to my top bunk and plopped down on the bed next to me, her hair, the color of spring grass, flying into the air. “Read me something.”

“I...I really don’t like people reading my stuff.” I snapped my leather-bound journal closed. “I wanna know how your Debate Team meeting went.”

“Oh come on. I’m not gonna judge you. Unless...you don’t write that gushy stuff, do you? God, all these girls in my intro into philosophy class were gushing over some sugar-coated Nicholas Sparks book and I just wanted to throw-up on them.” Katelyn pulled off her neon-orange Converse, each one clunking against the wooden dorm room floor.

“I’m kinda surprised you didn’t.” Katelyn playfully smacked my shoulder. “Hey. I was just being honest.”

“Yeah. You’re probably right. If I had control over my gag reflex, I totally would’ve. Anyway, let’s get to this bestseller of yours.” Katelyn nudged my shoulder.

“Are you serious?”

“No, I’m lying to you. Come on.” Katelyan pleaded. I cracked open my journal and flipped through some pages. As much as I wanted to pretend I didn’t want to read from it, I truly did. It was just no one had ever asked me before. Event though we’d only been dating for a few months, at that moment, I knew I was in love.

Katelyn and I met by pure coincidence, as the story always goes. My computer had been on the fritz again, and I was back at the campus repair shop for the third time that week. While waiting in line, a shrill voice rose up from one of the help stations. Turning my head, I was surprised to see a petite blonde girl in cutoff jean shorts and a neon green tank top yelling at the top of her lungs, leaving the skinny Indian clerk practically in fetal position on his seat. At this point, everyone in line was amused with the show and had lost interest in getting any technical assistance. Finally, the girl smashed her sticker-coated computer against the counter, sending the cup of pens and pencils across the floor, and spun around to walk away. For a second, she turned my direction and my empty blue eyes, connected with her playful almond-colored ones. A smile crept across her round pale face as she blew past me, gently brushing my windbreaker. Suddenly, I felt compelled to follow her. Halfway down the block, she stopped and turned around, freezing me in mid-step. She just stood there a moment, scrutinizing my every feature. Then, after I’d passed her test, she asked if I would like to walk with her.

Katelyn represented everything my shy and withdrawn self never had the balls to be. She was fiercely witty and outgoing and had friends in all corners of the campus. In an attempt to channel her exploding anger, Katelyn had joined the Debate Team and Students for Animal Rights, though she ended up being thrown out of the latter after a run-in with an old woman who ran a puppy mill. Let’s just say the argument ended in one of them having a heart attack, and it wasn’t Katelyn. Yet, no matter how hard she tried, she always seemed to end up speaking to the administration at least twice a semester. Thank goodness, her father, who owns half the oil fields in the U.S., was able to throw the university enough money to keep her in. Once, when we were drunk on hot Jameson and cider and making snow angels, she told me she’d decided to go to Princeton because Ralph Nader had gone there and her father had a deep-seated hatred for the Green Party. That was Katelyn’s nature. Completely obscene and unpredictable.

“So what have you been writin there, Hemingway? You should staple them napkins all together, and there you got yourself a nice little book.” Marguerite giggles to herself as she unties the white apron over her dress. Looking around the restaurant, realize I’m the last patron there.

“Yup, you made it to 2pm. God, do you wanna to sleep with me that bad?” Marguerite pours herself a cup of decaf coffee. “Damn, this stuff is shit at the end of the day. Talk bout some cowboy coffee. I think I’m drinkin more grounds than coffee.”

“Marguerite ”

“Can it, Terrence. There ain’t no one round besides the boy.”

“God, what am I gonna do with your sailor mouth?”

“Deal with it. I am the best damn waitress you got.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?” I bunch the napkins up in a nice, neat pile. “I didn’t say anything about that. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t think about it...” My fingers nervously tap the rim of my coffee mug.

“I was just pullin your leg. Don’t worry bout it. I’m done sleepin with your type anyways.” Marguerite holds up the coffee and pours me another cup.

“What do you mean by my type?” I snap back as I shove the pile of napkins into my pants pocket.

“Oh, don’t be gettin all worked up. It ain’t nothin against you. I’ve had my time with the travelin types and I’m done with ‘em.”

“Is that what you were alluding to before?” Marguerite hops off the stool and walks behind the counter.

“Do you like chocolate chip pancakes?”

“Yeah, but, wait. You didn’t answer my question.” Marguerite scribbles something on her pad of paper and hands the sheet to Terrence. She walks back over to the counter and stands face to face with me, her jade eyes glittering in the afternoon sunlight.

“That’s cuz I’m not sure I wanna. I’ll tell you my story, if you tell me what in the devil someone like you is doin in Hurtstown, Missouri.” I look down at my coffee, focusing on the tiny grounds floating on the surface. “Come on. It’ll earn you a free pancake breakfast and a vanilla milkshake.”

“Is this a six-year-old’s dream?”

“Nah, just a thirty-year-old woman who never lost her sweet tooth.” Marguerite pulls two tall glasses out from under the counter. “So if you be wantin some of Terrence’s best, you’d better get jabberin.”

“Why’re you being so nice?”

“Do you've to have a reason to be nice?” Marguerite pours some malt powder into the glasses.

“Yeah.”

“Well, fine Mr. Smarty Pants. I’ve been watchin you watch me all day and you seem like the nice type of folk and, honestly, we don’t get too many fresh faces in here. So it’s kinds nice to talk to someone who don’t know all your relatives and old boyfriends. Plus, you kinda remind me...” Marguerite closes the malt powder container and gazes off into space, as if she is remembering something. “God, here you go distractin me again. What’re you tryin to hide?”
I pick at the split in my thumbnail, that Ned gave me when he closed my hand in the door when I was eight. He broke three of my fingers and left me with this ugly fingernail. Megan used to call it my “toilet claw,” which is supposedly some claw that certain primates use for grooming. After I told Katelyn about it, she always begged me to run my “toilet claw” through her hair.

“I’m not trying to hide anything. Honestly, what makes this all kinda sad is that fact that I don’t really have a reason for being out here. It’s just...I dunno. I didn’t know what else to do.” Marguerite plops a scoop of vanilla ice cream into one of the glasses.

“I got it.” Another scoop plops into the glass.

“Got what?”

“You. You’re just like the rest of ‘em. You’re travelin round in the middle of nowhere tryin to find somethin, as if all these wide-open spaces and back-country folks have some answers for you. I never get what all you been lookin for.” Marguerite drops the last scoop into the glass. “You’re okay with vanilla, right? We got chocolate and strawberry and butterscotch, if you want.”

“Vanilla’s fine. God, I feel like I was just personally attacked. What’s your deal?

“I dunno. I just don’t get why all you just drive around with no goals while the rest of us work to make a livin. It just don’t make sense.” Marguerite pours a splash of whole milk in the glasses, peppering the counter with little beads of milk.

“Have you ever thought of gettin out there, Marguerite? You’re smart. I can see that. Why do you confine yourself to this.” I look around the barren restaurant and realize how confining it really is. “I mean, you should see the world. We really do live in a beautiful country.”
A loud whirring noise rises up from behind the counter as Marguerite mixes up the shakes. She motions to her ears, as if “she didn’t hear any of it” and I roll my eyes. The whirring stops and she sets the glass down in front of me. I reach for it and she pulls it away.

“Wait, justa hot second. I’m not done with it.” Marguerite holds up a whipping cream canister.

“I think I’ll pass.” Marguerite’s face drops, while the can still lingers over the glass.

“No whipping cream Black coffee and no whipping cream Where in the world did you come from, outer space?”

“I’ve never liked whipped cream. Well, I guess I used to. When I was six, I ate a whole can of Redi-Whip and I haven’t been able to eat whipped cream since. I threw up for a whole afternoon. My mother wasn’t too concerned though. I mean, she probably would’ve been happy to off me.” Marguerite swirls a pile of whipping cream on her own shake.

“Now don’t you be sayin that bout your...”

“Reety ” hollers Terrence from the kitchen. “Them hotcakes are in the oven for you two. Don’t you be leavin a mess in here. I gotta rep to be upholdin.” Terrence shuffles out of the kitchen in a pair of blue jeans and a grease-splattered white tank top. A navy blue apron is slung over his bony shoulder and a nub of a cigarette teeters on his chapped lips. He looks me up and down with his deep brown eyes and shakes his head, his graying black hair remains plastered to his head with a mix of sweat and gel. “Humph.”

“Don’t you be rude, Terrence. Say hello to the man.”

“I ain’t gonna say hello to another one of your men. Why don’t you just take ‘em home and be proper bout it.” Terrence waves and then heads for the door, his big brown boots clomping against the red and white tiled floor.

“Well, goodbye to you, too I hope you stick your head in the oven,” calls Marguerite. She settles back down on the stool next to me.

“I wish,” grumbles Terrence as he opens the screen door and walks out.

“Don’t you worry bout him. He just likes given me crap. Been doin it since I was a kid. He’s gotta a mean streak, but he does have a good heart in there. Just doesn’t know how to use it right.” Marguerite takes a slurp of her milkshake.

“Well, that makes two of us.” I take a sip of my milkshake, letting the sweet coolness slither down my throat like an icy snake. Milkshakes were the only thing that my mother ever made for me. She’d pull out all the cartons of ice cream in our freezer and together we would add various scoops to the blender. Sometimes, we’d throw in chocolate chips or some of the peanut butter cookies that Ms. Durge made us. In the end, our milkshakes always looked like mud and tasted about the same, but neither one of us ever cared.

“There was a girl, wasn’t there?” Marguerite swirls her shake around with her straw and lock of her hair falls in her face. Delicately, I tuck it behind her ear. Marguerite freezes and fixes her eyes upon me. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Yeah, there’s a girl. When isn’t there? Yeah. She was beautiful and smart. God, was she smart. Always challenging me. And she would get this giddy little smirk when she knew she was right.”

“So why’d you do it?”

“Do what?” I take another gulp of milkshake.

“You cheated on her, didn’t you?” Marguerite licks the whipped cream with her tongue and I grip the edge of my stool to keep me from trying to kiss her.

“Yeah, something like that. How’d you know?”

“You just know sometimes. Especially when someone talks like that.”

“Talks like what?”

“So fondly about someone. That’s how you know that they screwed it up and not the other person. They ain’t gonna smack talk the other when they were the one that messed it all up.”

“God, you’re something else.” Looking over at Marguerite, I try to coax a smile out of her contemplative face.

“Stop it, Romeo. I see what you’re doin with them eyes and I don’t approve. At least, not yet.” Marguerite hops back off her stool. “So what happened?”

“With Katelyn? Well, a bunch of things. I reached my junior year of college and kinda freaked out because I still had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and my parents were breathing down my neck and then Katelyn got into law school. Then I just kinda flipped out and lost control of my head. I got into drugs and just got fucked up every night and, god, Katelyn was so good to me. She would just sit and listen to all my fears and desires and basically all the crap that was going on inside of me.” Marguerite holds up her pointer finger.

“Hold that thought. I’m gonna grab them hotcakes.” She scurries off toward the kitchen and I continue to swirl my straw around, creating a creamy cyclone in the center of my glass.

“I don’t know who you are anymore, Daniel ” screamed Katelyn as she chucked a brown leather sandal at my head, clocking me right above my left temple.

“Jesus, Katelyn. What the fuck?” I rubbed my temple and found my fingers coated with a thin layer of blood. Katelyn picked up another sandal and held it over her shoulder in preparation for another attack. “Wait, no. Let me explain.”

“Explain what? Explain why the fuck you stuck your dick in another girl? Jesus, Daniel. I stuck by you through all this shit. The depression and the drugs and the questioning. God, I felt sorry for you. I wanted to help you figure out your life, but you wouldn’t let me in.” Katelyn dropped the shoe on the floor.

“Help me out? You didn’t help me out. You just scurried off to your little pre-law and Debate Team meetings and enjoyed yourself, while I spend every day being tormented by my own thoughts. Do you know how fucking scary it is to watch your girlfriend be successful and establish a future for herself, while you’re struggling to figure yourself out...”

“And all of this justifies cheating how?” Katelyn swung a giant purple duffel bad over her shoulder and then stormed to the front door of our apartment.

“I was drunk and I don’t even remember...” There front door swung open and banged into the wall, sending the photo of my family crashing to the ground.

“Fuck you , Daniel. Fuck you. I fucking loved you, too.” Katelyn’s long blue hair glimmered in the sunlight as the door crashed closed. I slipped on my barely-used running shoes and ran after her.


“Here you go. Pipin hot so you’d better be careful.” The plate crashed against the kitchen counter. Tiny trickles of steam rose from the stack of pancakes.

“Thanks, Marguerite. These look wonderful.”

“Believe me, they are. I’ll never get sick of ‘em.” Marguerite crouches behind the counter and with a quiet click, the restaurant is alive with the sound of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” by Frank Sinatra. “There we go.”

Perching herself back on the stool, Marguerite dives right into her pancakes and I watch her shove forkful after forkful into her mouth.

“Is it that exciting to watch me eat?” Marguerite’s fork clangs on her plate. “If you’re gonna be lookin at me like that, then you better be talkin. I get that you been hurt by love and I’m startin to get a feelin that you gotta a bad lot in the family way, but I till don’t get why’re you’re out here?”

While dragging my fork across the top of my untouched pancake, I begin. “Here’s the story. I dropped out of school, left Katelyn, and told my parents to fuck off and hopped on the road to find something about myself. You see, Marguerite. I’d been living the life that everyone else had told me I had to live and I was okay with it for a while, until one day, when I was sleeping through a world politics class, I had this horrifying dream about being a lawyer.” Marguerite nods her head as she takes a long sip of her milkshake. “And I realized that the only reason it was horrifying was that I absolutely did not want to be one. And that’s when I flipped out. I had worked for three years toward a degree that I no longer wanted to pursue.”

“Leavin was a waste. Why didn’t you just finish it up?

“Because I knew that there was no reason for me to. God, I was so unhappy. You have no idea. The only reason I cheated on Katelyn was because I was so fucked up in the head I was trying to find something that would bring me back to reality. Then, after reading Sarte and Kafka and Kerouac, I decided that I needed to figure my shit out. So I threw everything in a car and started driving.” I twirl my fork between my finngers.

“But why drivin? Everyone is always drivin. I mean, Cal was out doin the same thing and it just seemed so weird to me cuz here we’re busting our butts and there you guys are just livin all freewheelin without a care in the word.” Marguerite shoves another wad of pancake in her mouth, smearing chocolate on her cheek.

“Here.” I grab my napkin and wipe the chocolate off. “Chocolate.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“Well, it was the easiest way to see everything and I have. I mean, not everything, but so much. You’ve no idea. I’ve met people from all walks of life. Farmers and doctors and potato breeders and dog food makers and hookers and musicians and bums and even some waitresses and, god, it’s been amazing...”

“I get it, but when are you gonna get somewhere?” I look down at the pancakes and connect the chocolate chip dots with my eyes.

“I know, right? I’m starting to realize that. It’s been two months and I still feel confused. All I’ve figured out is that I like talking and being with people.”

“You should be a waitress.” Marguerite laughs and her face is aglow with joy.

“If I looked half as good as you do in that uniform, I would.” Marguerite playfully slaps me.

“Stop flatterin me. So what’re you gonna do now?” Marguerite shoves the last bit of pancake in her mouth. “Turn into a bum?”

“I wish. No, I’ve no idea, but I’m getting there. I know that. Anyway, I’ve flapped my jaw enough and I don’t want these luscious pancakes to get cold, so it’s your turn, Ms. Marguerite. Oh, and by the way, this may be the best shake I’ve ever had.”

“You’ve gotta stop the flatterin or else my face is gonna turn red for good. His name was Cal and he came struttin in here two weeks after my twenty-fifth birthday. He kinda looked like yourself, the shaggy beard—though I do have to say his was much fuller— and a look of wonderment on his face, oh, and the writin. The minute he walked in, he pulled out a journal and started stratchin away.” Marguerite’s eyes drift away on a thought.

“You loved him, didn’t you?”

“Aww, look at you being all knowin. Yeah, I loved him. He showed up to the diner three days in a row and we did just this every time and on the last day, I hopped on his motorcycle and we rode off into the night.”

“So what happened?” I start cutting my pancakes into bit-size chunks.

“He took me to Philadelphia, where he was from, and I got a job as a waitress and he went back to school to be a chemist and...” Marguerite looks away, as if she is going to cry.

“Are you okay?”

“Me? God, yes. Just a little somethin in my nose. Anyway, my momma got real sick and my cousins all came and found me and dragged me back down here and I begged Cal to come with me, but he refused to leave his life.” Marguerite takes a loud slurp of milkshake. “And I’ve been here ever since, but it’s okay. I got my family and my friends and people that care bout me and ol’ Terrence. I didn’t have no one up north, but Cal.”

“Hey, you don’t have to justify for me. God, I can’t believe he let you go. I would’ve held onto you so tight that no matter where you went, I’d be there.” I shove a chunk of pancake in my mouth and savor the sugary greasiness.

“Stop it. Cal had his reasons. I don’t blame him. It’s just tough sometimes. I wish he woulda just said he’s sorry or good bye or even I love you. Just something. He just waved and walked away.” Marguerite gets up off the stool and picks up her dishes.

“Do you ever think about going back?”

“To Cal? No. That part of my life is over, but sometimes I just miss the freedom. It’s nice to be somewhere where they don’t know every little detail bout your life and you can just be free, you know? Hold on a second.” Marguerite carries her dishes into the kitchen.


Sometimes I wonder if Katelyn still thinks about me. Every day I pull out my phone and dial her number, but I never have the guts to go through with it. I’m not sure she would even answer a call from me. Not after the way I left her, standing on that train platform. We were supposed to go to Boston together. Then I went and got drunk and fucked my anthropology study partner in the backseat of my car I in the bar parking lot. God, it didn’t even feel good. Sex has never felt the same, since Katelyn. When I was lying naked in bed smoking cigarettes with, Kali, a maid at a tiny hotel somewhere in northern Texas, she told me that having sex and making love are two different things. I miss making love, she told me. Her hair was thin and soft as silk and it made me shiver as it tickled my nose during sex. She was going to an accountant. I’m doing one of those online school things, she told me, her cherub face aglow.

Katelyn and I made love.

I wonder if she misses me.

I miss her everyday.

I wish I could just say I’m sorry.


“Okay, there’s one round of dishes done.” Marguerite sits down next to me and frees her hair from its hair tie prison.

“So why don’t you leave?” I inquire as I trace the rim of my glass.

“Okay, question master. Prolly the same reason why you don’t settle down. Scared, mostly. I mean, I’m pretty happy here. Bout as happy as I’ll ever be and I’m okay with that.” Marguerite looks out the window to her left.

“You have no want to get out again? You said it yourself. It’s pretty damn confining here.”

“Yeah, it is, but I got all I need here and a job and I ain’t got money like you do.” Marguerite continues to stare out the window. “Remember, Daniel, we all ain’t as lucky as you. Some of us gotta make a livin.”

“That’s true. I forget bout that sometimes.” I shove the last piece of pancake in my mouth and savor the last bit of goodness I’ll probably have for days. Marguerite snatches my plate, just as Nat King Cole’s “Looking Back” comes on the radio and I grab her wrist.

“What?” Marguerite snaps.

“Let’s dance.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. Come on.” Marguerite sets the plate back down and I pull her close to me, her hot breath beating against my throat.

“You are a little romantic, ain’t you?”

“Shh. Let’s just enjoy the moment.” Marguerite lays her head on my shoulder and I pull her closer, her boobs pressing into my chest.

We silently dance through the next five songs, until Marguerite, suddenly pulls away halfway through Etta James’s “At Last.”

“Oh my god I’ve gotta go. My cousin’s got a baby shower and...I’m gonna be late. Jesus.” I grab Marguerite by the shoulders.

“Whoa. Can I drop you somewhere?” I nod toward my Camaro and Marguerite rolls her eyes.
“You would drive somethin like that.”

“Hey, I refurbished that myself. Picked up the shell at a junk yard and went from there. Took me two and a half years. So I ‘ain’t all city boy.’”

“Daniel, I gotta say, that’s amazin. I dunno too many people round here who even know how to do that.” Marguerite jogs behind the counter and grabs her jean jacket from underneath it.

“Yeah. I guess I’m pretty good with my hands. Never really thought about it before. Used to make model cars and boats. When I was I high school, I used to build my own radios and probably replaced more fan belts for people than I could count.” Flexing my fingers, I study my hands. Suddenly, I’m struck with a thought.

“We gotta go.” Marguerite grabs my hand and drags me out the door.

“What about those dishes?”

“Terrence’ll just have to deal.” Marguerite hops over the edge of my car, causing her skirt to ride up her thick hips, giving me a welcome glance of her leopard-print panties. I follow her lead and jump in next to her.

“So where we off to.” The engine roars to life as I turn the key and Marguerite points to the right.

“Take a left at the stop sign, then turn right on the fourth street on your left.” Marguerite strokes the leather seat.

“Whatcha think?” I ask as I pull out onto the road.

“Seriously, Daniel. This is real nice.” Marguerite’s hair flies wildly as we whiz down the road.

“Lot better than Cal’s damn bike. I was so afraid I was gonna lose a leg or somethin.”

“Yeah. They can be nasty. I’ve heard some pretty bad stories.” Marguerite settles back in her seat and closes her eyes and smiles.

“So whatcha gonna do now?” I watch the rows of ranch houses and oak trees fly by as we cruise down Fisher Avenue.

“Well, now that I’ve got you in here, I’m gonna drive you to Philadelphia and you can get a job as a waitress and I’ll...”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” Marguerite whips her arm in front of my eyes. “Turn here. Her house’s that yellow one. I wish her husband would paint it. It looks like a goddamn Easter egg.”

I pull up in front of the yellow two-story house bordered by beautiful azalea bushes abloom in purples, reds, and pinks.

“So whacha gonna do now, Daniel? Keep ridin the high road?” Marguerite opens the door and gets out.

“Probably for a little while. There’s a few apologies I gotta make. Then, who knows. Turns out I’m pretty good with my hands.” I turn off the car and get out, too. We stand inches apart.

“What’re you gonna do, Marguerite?”

“Same old. Same old. It ain’t no Philadelphia or New York City or Nashville, but I’m okay with that.” Marguerite rummages around in her jacket pocket and produces a pink envelope with “Kristi” penned on the front in neat cursive. Wrapping my arms around her small waist, I pull her toward me, the rubber soles of her shoes dragging against the cement.

“So I’m assuming coming with me is out of the question.”

“Sorry, Daniel.”

“Well, I guess that’s okay. I’ll just take a piece of your to-go.” I lean in and we passionately kiss. Marguerite pulls away and smiles.

“God, you actually are good at that. Maybe I’ll take back my answer,” murmurs Marguerite. A young woman with short brown hair and wearing fitted dress with purple flowers all over it taps Marguerite on the shoulder.

“Hey Marguerite ”

“Hey Cheryl I’ll see you inside.” Cheryl continues up the sidewalk carrying a white wicker basket full of various baby items.

“Sorry bout that.” Marguerite pulls away. “I should be goin.”

“Yeah, me too. Marguerite...” I pick up her hand and kiss it. “I just want to let you know that you’re a beautiful woman and to tell you thank you.”

“For a few pancakes?”

“Something like that.” I hug Marguerite one last time. Then she scampers up the sidewalk and disappears within a gaggle of woman clamoring to get in the front door.

I rev up my engine and shift into first, taking on the open road once more.