Biscuits and Gravy
A light breeze floats to me from out of an open window and graces my face. I am carried away to shore. The waves brush softly against the sands. The sun allows the sands to remain warm in intervals. I exhale only to be disgraced by my growling stomach.
“Would you like somethin’, suga?” The waitress’ voice calls out to me.
I snap back from shore to my cushioned bar stool. I hesitate to answer. I need to eat. I haven’t eaten anything all day, I think.
“Biscuits and gravy it is,” the waitress says with a smile. Her uniform is the color of marigolds. The silver nameplate upon her breast is bare of name. She then calls out over her shoulder to the cook, “Biscuits and gravy for this gentleman here.”
“But I haven’t ordered—”
“Shhh,” the waitress says with her finger pressed upon my lips. “I know exactly what you want, suga.”
“Well, thank you.”
“I’ll be right back,” she says before leaving to assist another customer.
She leaves me her smile. No water, no milk, no orange juice. But somehow her smile quenches my thirst. I refrain from calling her over. I look about the diner to find that the shards of ice had not ruined the diner as though the occurrence did not happen at all. I look to see the tabby is licking the remnants of milk at the base of the white saucer before disappearing behind the counter.
She returns. “I’m so sorry, suga. Would you like somethin’ to drink?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I say placing my fedora atop the counter.
“Whe’s you from, suga? If you don’t min’ me askin’.” She smiles again.
Her smile inclines me to answer. “Chicago.”
“I knew you to be from the city. Fancy clothes like those,” she says. She leans over the counter and looks me square in the eye. “What brings you he’e, suga?”
I reach to loosen my tie, but find that it is not there. I try to remember where I might have placed it, but to no avail no memory occurs to me. I search my briefcase to find my necktie beneath an unkempt abundance of blank, lined paper and ink pens. The thought then occurs to me that I had tossed the necktie into my briefcase on my way here. But from where? I think as I look over to my briefcase beside me. Why can’t I remember?
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want,” she says placing her hand upon the back of my hand. She has brought a small cup atop a saucer to the counter before me without my notice. “I’m sure a lot of people came here to escape what they’ve done.”
“You must not think that I—”
“Of course not, suga. I don’t assume. Be sure that I just know,” she says granting me a wink and yet another smile.
I remove my hand from underneath her touch.
“I’m sorry. I’d only like for you to feel welcome, suga,” she says pouring oolong tea into the small cup atop and sliding it to me. She even takes the liberty of pouring sugar into my cup.
“That’s fine, thank you,” I say as I take hold of the cup.
“So what do you do, suga?”
“I’m a writer,” I say without hesitation. Somehow I’m reassured that this is fact.
“Would you like some butte’?” The waitress’ voice calls to me.
Again I lose myself as I stare off at the fresh leaves resting in the cup of oolong tea, only to bring myself back to reality.
“Would you like some butte’ on your biscuit before they’re tossed in with the gravy, suga?” She repeats.
“If I may.”
“Polite as ever. A gentleman and a scholar you are, suga,” she says with a smile.
I blush as I fold my fingers into each other and before I can formulate the words, “I wrote a book.”
“Oh, no worries about me tellin’ the cook of the butte’. I already knew and I already told ‘em.”
“How—”
She leans over the counter, takes a look around, and answers in a whisper, “I know who you are.”
“But—”
“Now about that book, what’s it about?”
“I…I—”
“I know,” she says with a smile. “You authors feel it best for readers to read rather than be told.”
I’m lost again, but the perspiration of the cup awakens me.
“I’m so sorry, suga. Do you prefer writer or author? I think them to be interchangeable—if you ask me—but the last author that came in corrected me. He said, ‘Writers write anything, but authors write great books’. How much of the truth that was, I certainly don’t care. You do what you do because you love it. And if you like it, hell I love it. But in your case: Since you love it, I love it past the span of this much,” she says with her arms stretched out.
I smile, “I’m a writer.” I take a light sip of the oolong tea.
“No, suga, you’re an author in your own right,” she smiles.
Her smile uplifts me.
“Have you written lately?” She inquires.
“I haven’t,” I say scratching the back of my head. “I guess that’s why I’m here.”
“Hmmm…” She says with her hand on her hip and her other caressing her neck. She looks up to the ceiling in deep thought.
I tilt my head back to look up to the ceiling as well. The wind blows the ceiling fan into rotation. Or is it the mechanics that cause it to rotate? I like that it be nature to cause such a revolution. I close my eyes and breathe the essence of my surroundings. I enjoy it.