I was told my favorite waitress was gone. Why should I care? She was just a cute, blonde service worker–a dime a dozen–though I must admit, I enjoyed checking out those long legs gently hugged by black shorts. And I got amused by the way she tilted her sweet face my way before bending over to sweep away crumbs from the floor near my table. That was the reason I gulped down one cup of foul-tasting coffee after another. I couldn't look away, and she knew it. She blushed whenever she caught me eyeing the tight material gripping her form, but her smile told me that she forgave me. Now it's only her memory playing with me. They say she's gone. That shouldn't affect me. Should it?
The Gourmet-to-Go is a friendly place in a forgettable part of Norfolk. Minus the coffee, it could easily be listed in the top ten for good food. That's why a lot of business folks stop in for lunch. They get hooked on either the Santa Fe Chicken or the Southern hospitality, which some say could mend the broken egos in this tough, but vibrant city. I don't know much about that. I drop by because my delivery route takes me through this dull neighborhood of trailer parks and aging stores. A renewal effort is underway, especially with the opening of new shops like the Gourmet-to-Go. I'm not sure what it is, but there's something charming about that pumpkin-colored bistro. I can't get it out of my mind. Plus, there's something about that waitress.
I tried not to think about her. I just sipped my coffee and glanced at the staff scurrying behind the counter. She wasn't there. I heard she's taking some time off. I don't know if she's coming back.
It's empty without her; I don't know why. The other employees are pretty entertaining, especially Stephanie and Nadine. Nadine was chatting with the regulars by the cash register. Loud and full of life, this ex-New Yorker puts on a show during lunch. The customers get a kick out of watching her handle the crowd with boisterous efficiency. When things calm down, she plays a trivia game with them. They all chime in, trying to guess plots in her soap operas or scenes from TV sitcoms. Laughter erupts over the sounds of clinking dishes and hissing steam, and everyone gets lost in the aroma of fresh baking bread. Warm and heavy, it lulls bloated bellies into a temporary nirvana until cheerleader Nadine beckons for a new game. But tired patrons have to head back to their law firm or the newsroom. Everyone is disappointed.
Then another face enters the scene. Wild Stephanie, returning from a long break, calls out a sultry, "Bye, baby," as they leave. All the men secretly hope it was directed at them. No one really knows what she does at the Gourmet-to-Go. She had perfected the art of appearing busy. Sometimes she waited tables. Other times she fussed with her untamed hair or greeted customers with excessive zeal. No one complained.
Way in the back, Milo limped slightly as he fetched forty pounds of raw chicken for the chef. Chef Celia never paid much attention to the staff except to occasionally shake her head. Her cooking is her craft, each delicacy a piece of self-esteem. Warmth radiates from her round and sunny face. She enjoys this place more than she allows us to believe.
There are a few others. They all make me feel welcome. So what was it about that waitress? What made her different? I know little about her. Her name is Dreama Avalon. Her features are delicate and softly framed by honey-blonde hair. Large, cautious eyes peer with a sense of mystery. She pours out her heart like the statue of a neglected angel standing in the center of a fountain. She wants to reach out, but she can't. She stays there as if waiting for someone. I can't let it be me. When I sit near her, I'm flooded by her emotion and it's too deep. She is unknowable. Maybe I'm afraid to know.
I fear something about her as if one kiss would destroy the sane routine that makes me who I think I am. Part of me wants to give in, to stay in her world forever and to discover a new version of "me." The other part knows I can't.
Suddenly I glanced up and found tomboy Nadine stepping towards me. Her smile was knowing, her stare found me guilty of some yet unrevealed crime. Something in her tough New York ways understood and she gently patted my shoulder.
"I have something for you," she said in her noticeable accent. Like most of Norfolk's residents, she was brought south due to military life, normally a lonely and broken existence. I know a little about that. Most of us here do.
She refilled my coffee with one hand and snuck something out of her apron pocket with the other. It was just a dull-looking notebook. And, I bet the pages are just as morose.
"Here," she said. "Dreama accidentally left this."
"Maybe she will come back for it," I stiffly told her, thinking it was the right thing to say.
I nearly burned myself on the tasteless coffee. I didn't need whatever the tattered notebook contained or what it could possibly mean.
Nadine shook her frizzy head in disappointment and playfully shoved me. "Come on, you jerk," she teased. "I only read a few pages. It's all I had time for and from what I read, it would be a serious mistake if you didn't read it right now!"
No one disagrees with Nadine unless you are prepared to take on her sharp wit or her equally sharp claws, so I accepted the worn journal, almost afraid of what I might find, though peeking into her mind was way too tempting. I casually flipped through, scanned some uninteresting passages and noticed some random art clippings of mythological scenes. Then I realized that Nadine was standing there as if aware of some forbidden secret. My face turned red.
“Well, I better get back to work,” I told her.
I tossed the diary or journal into my briefcase and quickly stood up. I hastily gave her a ten-dollar tip and thanked her.
She gave my arm a squeeze and said, “Stefan, just promise me that you will read it.”
I nodded. She always did like soap operas. I gathered my things and headed out to my Mustang. Once inside, I just sat there. What does this diary contain? What would she write about me?
But nothing could prepare me for what I found in those crinkled pages. I never imagined the extent of the effect I had on her. I soon found out. The tender ramblings touched me. The naivete of some entries made me feel guilty. Perhaps, I should have been more careful with my actions and what she mistook them to mean. Only one thing was for certain. After reading it, I must find this woman, so lost and betrayed by her own self. And by me?
I’m married. That’s not going to change, but I can at least find a way to contact her. I feel a duty to straighten this mess out. I thought I was just being a nice guy, so where did I go wrong? Maybe I know.
I think I care about her, that waitress. Let me be honest. I have watched her over my newspaper, eyeing her with forbidden desire. I could hardly stand near her without wanting to touch her. Perhaps, I am addicted to her blonde hair and the way she tucks it behind her ear, or maybe it is her large, adoring eyes. But I didn’t give into temptation. I fought it. She was just a waitress, someone I could toy with. To me, that is all it has been—until now.