admin
06 Mart 2023, 16:06
The following story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between actual persons, living or dead (or just confused) is entirely coincidental. Please do not copy/redistribute the story, in part or in total, without the author's permission.
------------- -----------------------
However humble, this story is dedicated to Colleen Thomas. Her recent passing served up some bittersweet memories, as it was her work that greatly influenced my own desire to give writing a shot as well as influencing my writing style to first and foremost tell a story. Rest in peace.
------------ -------
"Rest stop"
------------ -------
Taylor Richards listened to the crackling of gravel and ground underneath the tires of her 1964 Plymouth Sport Fury. She ran her hand over the bumps in the steering wheel, smiling whimsically. She and her dad had spent a lot of time restoring that car. She remembered the first soft caress of the black velvety interior, perfectly adorned with the burgundy frame. It was the best time she had ever spent with her father. He had passed away a few months after they had finished. But somehow, she always felt that he was still with her whenever she sat behind that wheel. The car had become her refuge whenever her thoughts or heart had become heavy. That's what had brought her to that little gas station and diner in the middle of nowhere; her car's engine still gently rumbling and idling in front of what looked like an old hitching post that separated the lot from the main building.
She sighed as she finally turned the key in the ignition and let the car rest. Without the hum of the engine, her noisy thoughts were free to intrude into the tranquility. She certainly remembered the screaming that had been the prologue to her exodus . . . her now-ex-girlfriend screaming obscenities down the stairs as she strode crying out the front door.
"You cow! How could you let yourself go like that?! Who do you think you are, you worthless bitch?!" And that was the nicer stuff that had been said. Things between Taylor and Amy had been bad for a while. Amy was a high-end investor at a high-end firm, and as a result had expected perfection from everything in her life, including her lovers and her booze. Taylor was an artist with a talent for urban landscape photography and for finding bad relationships. She had gone up one dress size and Amy had flipped a wig . . . her pet artist had developed an imperfection, at least in Amy's eyes. Taylor knew she shouldn't have let it bother her. Her friends, or what ones that she still had after being with Amy all that time, would have told her that she looked fabulous. But in Amy's eyes, Taylor might as well have been wearing a circus tent. And being someone who had struggled with her weight when she was a teenager, Taylor felt every stinging word.
But that was so many miles ago in another place. She had gone down to the garage, pulled the cover off her baby and gone for a drive. She didn't ever remember how she had gotten there, but supposed it didn't much matter. Somewhere along the drive, she seemed to have cried herself out.
She looked around. There were three other cars in the parking lot. There was a Porsche, a beat up Ford F-150 from what appeared to be the Stone Age, and a cute little VW Bug. It was one of the new ones, but Taylor didn't hold that against the poor thing.
Taylor leaned up against her car. If she strained her eyes hard enough, she could see the extra fat around her waist that Amy had been talking about. 'Why do I wear this crap?' she thought, referring to her bare midriff. She had always loved that look . . . snug low-rider jeans, a bare midriff and a torn tee-shirt. But she should have stopped wearing it when she put on those five pounds. Maybe then Amy . . .
"Screw Amy," she said out loud, leaning her head back and letting her long brown hair dangle in a warm desert breeze. Saying that had made her feel a little bit better.
She stepped up on the creaking wooden planks that made up the front walk of the store that accompanied the two antiquated gas pumps. The boards groaned under her feet as she walked inside, a little bell dangling from a string announcing her entrance. Inside, a little radio on the counter was playing Arlo Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant." The shelves were mostly empty and a single cooling unit stood next to the register, humming contentedly. She glanced over its contents . . .
"Tab?" she whispered amusedly, looking at one of the off-pink cans on the top shelf. She hadn't had one of those since she was a kid at her Grandma's house. Bittersweet memories . . . her grandmother had never quite forgiven her for being gay. Things had been civilized after Taylor had "come out," but the magic was obviously gone.
She glanced over her shoulder. The other half of the room acted as a little restaurant, though Taylor didn't see what kind of business it could do out here. Surprising, several tables were occupied. There was an iron-jawed and arguably handsome middle-aged man in a business suit right in the middle of the room, apparently arguing escort şişli (https://mecidiyekoymarka.com) with his palm-pilot. A younger man in a United States Marines uniform was nibbling on a rather crisp looking salad at another table, while a pretty eighteen year old girl with a golden pony-tail and a cheerleader uniform was sitting at a third. 'Is this a diner or a meeting of the New Age Village People?' she thought, trying to amuse herself.
"Have a seat sugar, and I'll be with ya in min," came a delightfully Southern accent from behind a pair of swinging doors that separated the dining area from the kitchen. As soon as that voice was heard, the Marine and the man in the suit both looked towards those doors a little too eagerly.
Taylor wasn't even all that hungry, but the idea of kickin' back and relaxing for a minute didn't seem all that bad. So she pulled up a chair and leaned back, grabbing a menu from underneath the salt-shaker. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught both of the men in the room sneaking glances at her, and suddenly she was self-conscious again and instinctively placed her arms across her midsection. She was saved from her embarrassment, at least temporarily, by the squeaking hinges of the kitchen doors. And Taylor quickly found herself without the benefit of oxygen flowing to her brain.
The woman walking out carrying a tray of grub was . . . amazing. It was the only word that Taylor could think of. Curly dark hair tried desperately to escape that little waitress cap that the woman had on, and it wasn't the only thing trying to escape its confines. The woman had a set of curves that would make the Pope rethink his vows, and a face . . . oh that face. Taylor had seen women described as beautiful . . . this was the first one she had seen that DEFINED beautiful.
The woman dropped off a salad for the cheerleader, a club sandwich for the businessman and a plate of chicken strips and fries for the marine. Taylor noticed the businessman's gaze caught on the woman's perfectly rounded backside for a little longer than might be deemed appropriate, but Taylor couldn't blame him. She was enchanted by the view from the front as the waitress wandered over.
"Sorry 'bout the wait, hun. I'm the only one here today, so I'm pullin' double-duty," the woman said with an ear-to-ear grin. "What's yer pleasure?"
Taylor knew she had to say something; otherwise she'd look like a total fool. But she was so captivated by those beautiful green eyes and olive complexion . . .
"Uhm . . . what would you suggest?" she asked quickly. She had long ago discovered that it was easier just to let someone else decide.
"Would you like to take uh look at the menu?"
"Nah," Taylor said, leaning back and trying really hard to look relaxed. "Just bring me out whatever you think would make good traveling food. Oh, and . . . never mind."
The waitress looked puzzled. "What? Sumphin' you want?"
"A Tab?" Taylor asked meekly before she could stop herself.
"Not a prob," the woman replied. "We got it on tap." She offered her hand. "My names Lilly, by the by. I'll be your chef, server and con-fi-dante for the afternoon." Lilly grinned again. "You want sumphin', just gimme a holler." Then Lilly turned around and headed back into the kitchen. And Taylor got a good-if-brief view of what the businessman had been looking at, and Taylor appreciated it just as much.
Then she noticed that the Marine had seen her checking the waitress out, and his face was disapproving.
'Whatever,' she thought, though she quickly averted her gaze. If he couldn't handle being in the same room as a lesbian, then . . . well, heck with him. But she fixed her face on her table . . . she didn't want a confrontation. But when those doors swung again and Lilly swayed over to put a fizzling glass of pop on the table, Taylor couldn't hide her gaze.
"Take a picture hun," the waitress said. "It'll last longer." But Lilly was still grinning, and Taylor didn't feel so bad at being caught staring directly at the woman's cleavage.
"Sorry," Taylor replied. "It's rude."
"Rude? Sweetie, any day when I can still catch a youngin's eye is a good day for me."
"Really? Why?"
"At my age . . ."
"But you can't be a day over twenty-five!"
"Looks can be deceivin'."
"Ma'am," the Marine said shortly, "could I get a refill please?"
"Polite even in disdain," the waitress muttered. She went to get a pitcher of iced-tea as the young man shook his head.
"What'd you do that for?" the businessman said. "You ruined the floor show!" He was grinning, but his smile held much less appeal for Taylor than Lilly's had. He had directed this comment directly and loudly at the younger man.
"It's indecent," the Marine replied. "In public, anyway," he added hastily.
'What? Suddenly you don't want to be seen as a bigot?' Taylor thought. She was so tempted to give him a piece of her mind. But she knew she wouldn't. She never did. She just sipped her Tab and went back to staring at the ceramic salt
------------- -----------------------
However humble, this story is dedicated to Colleen Thomas. Her recent passing served up some bittersweet memories, as it was her work that greatly influenced my own desire to give writing a shot as well as influencing my writing style to first and foremost tell a story. Rest in peace.
------------ -------
"Rest stop"
------------ -------
Taylor Richards listened to the crackling of gravel and ground underneath the tires of her 1964 Plymouth Sport Fury. She ran her hand over the bumps in the steering wheel, smiling whimsically. She and her dad had spent a lot of time restoring that car. She remembered the first soft caress of the black velvety interior, perfectly adorned with the burgundy frame. It was the best time she had ever spent with her father. He had passed away a few months after they had finished. But somehow, she always felt that he was still with her whenever she sat behind that wheel. The car had become her refuge whenever her thoughts or heart had become heavy. That's what had brought her to that little gas station and diner in the middle of nowhere; her car's engine still gently rumbling and idling in front of what looked like an old hitching post that separated the lot from the main building.
She sighed as she finally turned the key in the ignition and let the car rest. Without the hum of the engine, her noisy thoughts were free to intrude into the tranquility. She certainly remembered the screaming that had been the prologue to her exodus . . . her now-ex-girlfriend screaming obscenities down the stairs as she strode crying out the front door.
"You cow! How could you let yourself go like that?! Who do you think you are, you worthless bitch?!" And that was the nicer stuff that had been said. Things between Taylor and Amy had been bad for a while. Amy was a high-end investor at a high-end firm, and as a result had expected perfection from everything in her life, including her lovers and her booze. Taylor was an artist with a talent for urban landscape photography and for finding bad relationships. She had gone up one dress size and Amy had flipped a wig . . . her pet artist had developed an imperfection, at least in Amy's eyes. Taylor knew she shouldn't have let it bother her. Her friends, or what ones that she still had after being with Amy all that time, would have told her that she looked fabulous. But in Amy's eyes, Taylor might as well have been wearing a circus tent. And being someone who had struggled with her weight when she was a teenager, Taylor felt every stinging word.
But that was so many miles ago in another place. She had gone down to the garage, pulled the cover off her baby and gone for a drive. She didn't ever remember how she had gotten there, but supposed it didn't much matter. Somewhere along the drive, she seemed to have cried herself out.
She looked around. There were three other cars in the parking lot. There was a Porsche, a beat up Ford F-150 from what appeared to be the Stone Age, and a cute little VW Bug. It was one of the new ones, but Taylor didn't hold that against the poor thing.
Taylor leaned up against her car. If she strained her eyes hard enough, she could see the extra fat around her waist that Amy had been talking about. 'Why do I wear this crap?' she thought, referring to her bare midriff. She had always loved that look . . . snug low-rider jeans, a bare midriff and a torn tee-shirt. But she should have stopped wearing it when she put on those five pounds. Maybe then Amy . . .
"Screw Amy," she said out loud, leaning her head back and letting her long brown hair dangle in a warm desert breeze. Saying that had made her feel a little bit better.
She stepped up on the creaking wooden planks that made up the front walk of the store that accompanied the two antiquated gas pumps. The boards groaned under her feet as she walked inside, a little bell dangling from a string announcing her entrance. Inside, a little radio on the counter was playing Arlo Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant." The shelves were mostly empty and a single cooling unit stood next to the register, humming contentedly. She glanced over its contents . . .
"Tab?" she whispered amusedly, looking at one of the off-pink cans on the top shelf. She hadn't had one of those since she was a kid at her Grandma's house. Bittersweet memories . . . her grandmother had never quite forgiven her for being gay. Things had been civilized after Taylor had "come out," but the magic was obviously gone.
She glanced over her shoulder. The other half of the room acted as a little restaurant, though Taylor didn't see what kind of business it could do out here. Surprising, several tables were occupied. There was an iron-jawed and arguably handsome middle-aged man in a business suit right in the middle of the room, apparently arguing escort şişli (https://mecidiyekoymarka.com) with his palm-pilot. A younger man in a United States Marines uniform was nibbling on a rather crisp looking salad at another table, while a pretty eighteen year old girl with a golden pony-tail and a cheerleader uniform was sitting at a third. 'Is this a diner or a meeting of the New Age Village People?' she thought, trying to amuse herself.
"Have a seat sugar, and I'll be with ya in min," came a delightfully Southern accent from behind a pair of swinging doors that separated the dining area from the kitchen. As soon as that voice was heard, the Marine and the man in the suit both looked towards those doors a little too eagerly.
Taylor wasn't even all that hungry, but the idea of kickin' back and relaxing for a minute didn't seem all that bad. So she pulled up a chair and leaned back, grabbing a menu from underneath the salt-shaker. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught both of the men in the room sneaking glances at her, and suddenly she was self-conscious again and instinctively placed her arms across her midsection. She was saved from her embarrassment, at least temporarily, by the squeaking hinges of the kitchen doors. And Taylor quickly found herself without the benefit of oxygen flowing to her brain.
The woman walking out carrying a tray of grub was . . . amazing. It was the only word that Taylor could think of. Curly dark hair tried desperately to escape that little waitress cap that the woman had on, and it wasn't the only thing trying to escape its confines. The woman had a set of curves that would make the Pope rethink his vows, and a face . . . oh that face. Taylor had seen women described as beautiful . . . this was the first one she had seen that DEFINED beautiful.
The woman dropped off a salad for the cheerleader, a club sandwich for the businessman and a plate of chicken strips and fries for the marine. Taylor noticed the businessman's gaze caught on the woman's perfectly rounded backside for a little longer than might be deemed appropriate, but Taylor couldn't blame him. She was enchanted by the view from the front as the waitress wandered over.
"Sorry 'bout the wait, hun. I'm the only one here today, so I'm pullin' double-duty," the woman said with an ear-to-ear grin. "What's yer pleasure?"
Taylor knew she had to say something; otherwise she'd look like a total fool. But she was so captivated by those beautiful green eyes and olive complexion . . .
"Uhm . . . what would you suggest?" she asked quickly. She had long ago discovered that it was easier just to let someone else decide.
"Would you like to take uh look at the menu?"
"Nah," Taylor said, leaning back and trying really hard to look relaxed. "Just bring me out whatever you think would make good traveling food. Oh, and . . . never mind."
The waitress looked puzzled. "What? Sumphin' you want?"
"A Tab?" Taylor asked meekly before she could stop herself.
"Not a prob," the woman replied. "We got it on tap." She offered her hand. "My names Lilly, by the by. I'll be your chef, server and con-fi-dante for the afternoon." Lilly grinned again. "You want sumphin', just gimme a holler." Then Lilly turned around and headed back into the kitchen. And Taylor got a good-if-brief view of what the businessman had been looking at, and Taylor appreciated it just as much.
Then she noticed that the Marine had seen her checking the waitress out, and his face was disapproving.
'Whatever,' she thought, though she quickly averted her gaze. If he couldn't handle being in the same room as a lesbian, then . . . well, heck with him. But she fixed her face on her table . . . she didn't want a confrontation. But when those doors swung again and Lilly swayed over to put a fizzling glass of pop on the table, Taylor couldn't hide her gaze.
"Take a picture hun," the waitress said. "It'll last longer." But Lilly was still grinning, and Taylor didn't feel so bad at being caught staring directly at the woman's cleavage.
"Sorry," Taylor replied. "It's rude."
"Rude? Sweetie, any day when I can still catch a youngin's eye is a good day for me."
"Really? Why?"
"At my age . . ."
"But you can't be a day over twenty-five!"
"Looks can be deceivin'."
"Ma'am," the Marine said shortly, "could I get a refill please?"
"Polite even in disdain," the waitress muttered. She went to get a pitcher of iced-tea as the young man shook his head.
"What'd you do that for?" the businessman said. "You ruined the floor show!" He was grinning, but his smile held much less appeal for Taylor than Lilly's had. He had directed this comment directly and loudly at the younger man.
"It's indecent," the Marine replied. "In public, anyway," he added hastily.
'What? Suddenly you don't want to be seen as a bigot?' Taylor thought. She was so tempted to give him a piece of her mind. But she knew she wouldn't. She never did. She just sipped her Tab and went back to staring at the ceramic salt