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It's the wee hours once again...and here I am again...and my big, cafe-au-lait goddess stands there at the counter, with her chin supported by a hand, the joining elbow resting on the counter.
"Hi," she says, with a borderline lasciviousness.
"Hello." I take off my down jacket, and sit it on the adjoining stool. There's one other customer here: an elderly woman with a bright, purple coat, all the way down at the other end. The satellite feed, for a change, is playing, of all things, 1950s Latin rhythms. The Palmetto now feels like a hot and humid Batista-era Havana sidewalk cafe on this cold, winter night. "So, how's the beautiful Rochelle Peyton this so early morning?"
"Rochelle Peyton feels beautiful. How's Georgie?"
"Lousy. I have a cold."
"You and everyone else."
"I couldn't even sleep. So, I decided to come here."
"I'm glad you did." She hands me a menu, and goes to tend to the one other customer, who might very well be an aging Minnesota Vikings cheerleader. Who knows? I open the menu, and my eyes settle on something nice: a stack of pancakes, and a side of corned beef hash. Wow. It also is quite fair to mention that the pancakes at the Palmetto Diner are roughly the size of the brake rotors on a Nissan Pathfinder. Once a week, I just let go, and have big lumberjack meals. This once certainly qualifies.
"You find anything?"
"Yep. Pancakes and hash. Yum!"
"Sounds like a winner."
"So, why do you actually feel as beautiful tonight as you look?"
Rochelle smiles. "I don't know. It's just that I feel very relaxed tonight. Really relaxed. Like this is all a womb."
"It's my experience that when you feel like that is when you have to keep on your guard."
"Yeah, I know. It's just that I like this feeling. I'll be right back." She goes down the counter, to place the order. I remember one time in my life when I had that feeling she's describing. At the time, I was twenty, and I was madly, completely, totally head-over-heels in love with someone who, to this very day, remains the love of my life. Someone who my wife knows nothing about. It's like, it's a chapter that's closed. Anyway, this one morning, the person and I went out to breakfast, and afterwards, back to the small apartment she shared with a room mate. She was very tired, and fell asleep on a couch. The apartment was very, very quiet. Just seeing her sleeping made me feel very relaxed. Very safe. Like a womb, as Rochelle said. For one brief shining moment, there was Peace, and not Tumult. There was the girl. And, joy, like sunbeams appearing. People take drugs in order to achieve the peace that I experienced that morning.
Rochelle returns. "I just feel relaxed, that's all. The holidays are over, no more stress over gifts, or kids, or the manchild who shares my life."
"You know, this is just between you and me, and no one else. If I wasn't in the situation I was in, I'd be at your door, knocking, every day. I'd be bearing gifts. I'd be worshipping at your feet."
Rochelle laughs. "Oh, stop. Please. Before I have you thrown out."
"I know I have a lot more to offer than a manchild."
"You probably do. But, he's my manchild."
"And this is a purely hypothetical line of conversation, too," I say, with my tongue planted firmly in my cheek.
"Yes, it is! I also think highly of your wife too, so you better stop!" She playfully hits me in the nose with a packet of Splenda.
"Well, I love my wife, too."
"You'd better."
"I'd better."
Rochelle sighs. "You're very nice, George. You really are. You're very sweet."
"Thank you."
"Thing is, in that hypothetical world, you would never be able to handle my life, or my people in my life. Even I have trouble."
"Your family can't be that crazy. No crazier than mine."
"No, I think my family's a lot crazier. Look what it did to my sister."
Leathea. She's got a point. "Hmm."
"They'd make you into someone who sits on park benches, with your index finger on your lips, going 'doobadoobadoobadoo.'"
"You're right. I don't need that."
"Let me go see if it's ready." She goes down to the kitchen. the Latin rhythms continue. I have always loved this music- it's alive. It's joyful, it's all reckless abandon! And, it's REAL. It's not formulated rubbish, like, say, Gwen Stefani.
She comes back with my pancakes and corned beef hash. She brings an old-fashioned maple syrup dispenser, with a sliding steel top. "Here you go. Enjoy."
As she puts the plates down, we both look down. Our hands meet, and clasp, for several seconds. Her skin's thick, yet soft. And warm. She smiles.
"More coffee?"
"Sure." Our hands separate. Comfortably. No longing communicated, on either end. Just good warmth. On a winter night, this is a good thing.
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Posted by Knoxxie03 on 2008-01-05 21:59:23 | Rating: | Views: 63
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YOUVE GOT TALENT ,HAVE YOU EVER BEEN PUBLISHED
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Posted by necronomincon
on 2008-01-05 22:03:08
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I've been in the process of writing the Great American Novel, on and off, for quite some time. What you see's the literary equivalent of finger drills on a piano...
And, thanks :)
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Posted by Knoxxie03
on 2008-01-06 11:48:58
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I miss that feeling you're describing, the womb feeling..
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Posted by crydun2004
on 2008-01-09 19:38:35
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