Short/Start

 This beginning of a short story has been sitting in my list of posts for several months now. I haven't written short fiction in years. I honestly couldn't tell you the year I last published prose. It would easily be at least a decade at this stage. At that, it was genre fiction. Fantasy, horror, dark. I was never much for contemporary fiction. It never seemed to come out honest when I tried. Which is a bit funny considering that I've done fairly well writing plays that possess a lot of honesty.

Anyway, I've been poking at this, and I know where it's going. I don't know when I'll get there but on this quiet Sunday morning I opened it again and looked and tweaked it a tiny bit and I felt like sharing what I've laid down. (I was also inspired by some very nice writing on a friend's blog about the end of summer, so thank you for that!)

This piece is untitled.

= = =
The diner was good for two things: an honest plate of eggs with toast, and people watching. Gerald always sat toward the back, facing away from the door, waiting on breakfast and watching the other diners through the two clear inches at the bottom of an old milk-company promotional mirror on the wall on front of him. It was easier that way. He could pretend he didn't see the disgusted looks and they could pretend not to notice the dirty old guy who bicycled around town.

He watched them to figure out their stories. A few he already knew start to finish, pieced together through overheard conversations or what he observed on repeat visits. People who came back were like chapters. Gerald picked up on how they sat closer or further away one week to the next, or whether they talked to each other more or less or how much or how little they touched each other during breakfast. From that he created their stories. A lot of it was guesswork. He knew that. After so many years of keeping at it, though, Gerald figured he had it down pretty well.

Trina whisked by his table, headed for the kitchen. "More?" she said, one finger flicking vaguely in the direction of his coffee cup. His "yes, please" caught in his throat a bit, came up as more of a croak. It didn't matter. She'd refill it on her way back as long as he sat there, shooting him a quick grin meant to pass for courtesy. He understood. A couple of the older waitresses, the lonelier ones--he made their stories, too--would spare him a word or two here and there, recognizing his place as a regular and a fixture in town. But the young girls wanted as little to do with him as possible.

He knew Trina's story because he'd seen it before. Smarter than she thought she was, thinking maybe she should have gone to junior college and how she just might anyway. Hating her job but stuck with it because the work wasn't hard and the tips were pretty good. Wondering why she wasn't married like some of her friends even though she was not, if Gerald had to guess, a day over twenty-two. Late nights doing nothing worthwhile. Mornings with an armload of plates and a pasted-on smile.

Sure, he knew her. He'd always wanted a girl. Never sure why. The missus had  found it funny.