This post was written for Sandra's Workshop Writing Hop. We were to write a piece in close first person.
Lavigna bustled about the diner. I could see the gap between the top two
buttons of her skirt; could see a hint of red lace above her ivory skin though
that gap. I could see the bump of raised
skin on the back of her thigh where she’d had stitches from that dog bite back
in ‘eighty. Lavigna sure knew how to
market a place; knew that the truckers came to her diner for more than a plate
of pork chops and fried potatoes. We
came for hope.
I watched Lavigna touch the mole at the corner of
her lips; watched her press those lips together and try to smile at Harvey
Daniels like it was perfectly fine that he was taking ten minutes to decide
between scrambled and overlight; whole wheat and white. I could tell she wanted to snap that gum she
kept tucked inside her cheek while she talked to the customers.
“Fried, Harv,” I shouted.
He looked at me.
was a new trucker, unaccustomed to life on the road. Unaccustomed to loneliness. He took what human contact he could from the CB
radio and thirty minute stops every ten hours.
I ran my fingers across the table—oak. Lavigna never did spare a dime on anything. Always the optimist. Always thinking this was going to work out just
fine, if she just spent enough money; if she just worked hard enough.
I pulled a cigarette from my front pocket. Plugged it in my mouth.
“You know there ain’t no smoking here, Earle.”
“I got my eye on you,” she said.
“I got my eye on you, too, Lavigna.”
Harv perked up at this. “Where’d you get a name like Lavigna, anyway?” Harv considered himself the intelligent one of the bunch: He’d been to college, after all. Had a
career in the computing industry. After
he was laid off, he found out he weren’t so special after all. “That’s an awfully unusual name.”
“Shut up, Professor,” I said. Harv was parking himself on my own turf.
But Lavigna just smiled that little smile; that
knowing smile; that smile that looked like she had a butterscotch candy nestled
on her tongue, just melting there.
“Her daddy was some Eye-talian. Had a winery somewheres.”
Harv studied the ceiling for a moment, his mouth
moved like he was chewing down real hard on his thoughts. “Latin.
Vinum. Wine.” His face brightened.
“Yeah, whatever, Harv.”
“She doesn’t look Italian. She’s real white.”
I frowned. I
could tell Harv had been studying in between them buttons.
“Her daddy’s from the north, dipshit. What’d you major in up at college, anyhow?”
“Well I see you’re taking a refresher course in
women. Your wife know about your
Harv had the decency to blush and drop his eyes as
Lavigna slapped a plate of eggs before him and bustled over to my table.
I straightened up in my seat. Balanced my smoke on my spoon. Smiled.
Waited to study that gap between her buttons myself.
nodded. I could see the chewing gum
tucked behind her teeth.
“How’re things with Duane?”
“Shitty, like always.” I spoke like I was giving the weather report.
“Fix it, then we’ll talk.”
“Me and Duane, we’re never going to be square,
Lavigna. Some people just aren’t meant
to get along.”
She cracked her gum.
“He’s your son, Earle.”
I hated the way Lavigna always had to state the
obvious to me. Times like this I
wondered why I was attracted to her. “Men
ain’t into that relationship thing all that much, like you women are, Lavigna.” I ran my hand over the table. “It’s like this here table. You can see the grain beneath, but you can’t
get to it. You can’t feel it, Lavigna,
even though you really want to.”
“Ain’t no varnish between you and Duane. You ain’t tryin’ hard enough.”
I sighed. I
preferred the smooth, protected surface that acted as a barrier between me and
Duane. It was easier that way. Easier to
pretend that we were irrevocably divided.
just have to find me another man, then,” she said, walking away.
Picked up my cell and punched in Duane’s number.
“Duane?” I said, after he’d picked up.
“Yes.” He was
curt. I wanted to hang up. I looked at Lavigna, leaning against the
counter by the coffee machines, arms crossed, chewing on that bottom lip
again. Lord, I wanted to touch that
“I got a woodworking project I need your help with,”
I said. “You any good at sanding?”
Labels: Fiction, Writing workshop hop