Late Night at Stella's

Stella’s Diner sits on the edge of a busy road. Not much was inviting about the place other than the Christmas lights. At night, divorcees and homeless people sat late in the booths. I knew it’d make the perfect place to break up with my girlfriend, so I told her to meet when even the dregs cleared out – at two o’clock in the morning. I sipped my coffee as her Volkswagon pulled in.

I started liking her not because of her body, but that certainly helped. She knew me well. She became almost like family, and my parents said she was a good match for me. She knew my version of fun was football games, and she could keep up with my friends’ banter on weekends. She laughed at their jokes, even the crude ones. Our favorite bar harbored our best times, and the owner treated us like his own children.

She was skinny as a twig, and Lord knows I’m into skinny. She also had this nice big smile and teeth straight out of the orthodonist’s. Body definitely mattered, but sex mattered more. She pushed my erotic buttons. We would do it for hours. She always used this special lemon serum after we were done. For awhile, the sensual carried our relationship. Not anymore.

I like this new girl now. We met on the parkbenches near the tennis courts, where I felt seen, truly seen, for the first time. It started on a Saturday, then it became daily. She would actually let me speak. She never made it about her. I could only ever think of the white flowers that adorned her socks, her tiny black sports bra, the green headband that held back her hair, and the soft syllables of her voice. I was deeply attracted to her. I don’t care what anybody says: attraction matters. If she wasn’t physically appealing, we would’ve probably never spoke. I felt safe and at-home and excited about this one – more than I felt about anyone before. That’s what life’s all about, isn’t it – excitement?

The door-chime clanged and my girlfriend strode in. A cold December air followed. Of course she got dolled up for this. She had her hair done and her nails painted ruby red. The vest under her peacoat clung to the small curves of her chest. Her jeans were snug. She knew I’d notice, and I’ll admit, she did look good. She looked better than good. She entered the booth and I wondered how long the whole thing would take. My hands felt clammy. My forehead glistened from how hot they brewed the coffee.

“Hey,” she said.

“Do you want decaf or something to eat?” I said, politely. Manners were a big part of my upbringing.

“I’ll see when she comes around.”

We barely made eye contact. She messed with the napkin holder. Her left leg jiggled like a loose tree branch.

“What’d ya want?” the waitress asked.

“Hi. Yes. Can I have just a decaf coffee with sugar? And the blueberry waffles with syrup, please.”

“That it?” The waitress had a long jaw and fake tan, and her body was lean. Her hair was probably grey, but reddish dye covered it. My chiropractor had the exact same earrings. She definitely exercised. For her mid-forties, she looked good.

“No, thank you. I appreciate it.” The waitress ripped the receipt and turned. Averting my girlfriend’s eyes, I fidgeted. I felt uncoordinated, like teeing off before an audience or mounting a horse.

Outside, the lights from the movie theatre flickered. Darkness covered the streets. I was aware I had to find the courage to look her in the eyes – the same green eyes I had known in Death Valley and Aspen and time and time again on her parents’ leather sofa. We’d always have our memories, and I didn’t regret a single one. She’d always be my first love.

“I love you,” I managed. Her eyelids flickered. Tears surfaced. Her face was a waning gibbous.

“And I care about you, really, a whole lot,” I continued. She left the napkin holder alone. I gathered my thoughts like an orator. I never cry, but a few tears welled up, I’ll admit. My jaw crunched to stifle them. She looked sweet, her straightened hair reaching the tops of her shoulders and her loose-fitting turtleneck freshly washed. I was crushing a seashell.

I soldiered on. “I just don’t think things are the same. I know you’re the one, and I think we can make this work eventually, but I also think we need a break – a full break this time – just to see what it’s like – ”

She shuddered. I think she expected it, but expectations are a brave gamble. The heat of the diner heaved before the place grew quiet. The theatre lights seemed harsher now, and my coffee grew acrid. An ocean arose between us. There was no tide nor moon-glimmer now, just vastness.

She stood. In her face was every emotion I’ve tried all my life to avoid: anger, jealousy, sadness, and rage. She looked unrecognizable, like a starved raccoon. Her cheeks were blushed and swollen, and her black makeup smeared. My mind wandered to backhand digs at midday, icy pops on the park benches, and thin sports bra straps drawn tight upon tan skin. I didn’t feel like explaining this any more. Life’s messy, and words only make it worse. We could debate our relationship all night – how “distant” I’d been lately, why I never took interest in her business, or how her neediness bordered on desperation. She was the one holding me back. It was she who begged me to commit to the Tulum all-inclusive, and the hikingtrail picnic, and her best friends’ engagement party on Bourbon Street. It was all too much.

She swept her peacoat away in one dramatic stroke. She gathered her purse. Her jeans showed her thin ankles, and I was reminded of her delicacy.

When the wind rushed in and the door-chime stilled, the blueberry waffles were delivered burnt.