She spilled into the diner aware of the unfamiliar ness enveloping her, but not knowing what was about to occur. Her lack of security that consistently loomed over her was a dark cloud, which overshadowed both her current mental, and yes, physical state.
Drowned in a sense that she was barely surviving in her own personal hell, she sank into an available seat in the corner near a window and removed her coat, placing it carelessly in the empty chair across from her. Not yet ready to revisit decision making within a 24 hour time period, ordering food was out of the question. Instead, she looked around her and suddenly became nauseas. Everyone that surrounded her in this idyllic town, in this diner, was beaming; the carefree nature and the happy-go-lucky style spilled from the tops of their unpolished shoes. She was singled out and unaccustomed to feeling that certain kind of happiness, the kind that came from looking optimistically at life and, in return, periodically achieving what was set out for. Everyone in this small town was like a character in one of those movies; the ones about small town charm where each person knows the people around him and has a daily routine where he can visit the same people and exchange “good-morning” and “how’s-the-wife.”
She continued to stare at the smiling faces of the full stomachs that read the morning news and realized that someone was standing by her, talking to her. She awoke from her daydream and zoomed back into reality. She looked up and saw a man standing next to her chair. She assumed that he was the diner owner. He, although not dresses as she thought a man of his looks would be, took her breath away momentarily until she remembered how she was dressed. Her new black heels were covered in a brown mud and were coated with grass, while her pants were drenched from the calf down. Her jacket sitting across from her, also wet, had left random wet marks printed on what had been a nicely ironed top. She could only imagine that her makeup made her look like she was the victim of numerous tragedies, which would not be too deceiving considering her last few days. My hair, she thought, was undoubtedly unacceptable and so she nonchalantly pulled her uncombed, damp mess into a tight bun and secured it with a pin. She faced the man with all the dignity she could muster and said,
“Hello. I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening.”
His face twisted into a confused and bewildered stare and flushed a light shade of pink as he responded,
“That’s okay. Never mind, I was just rambling anyway.”
She, disappointed that she would never know what he could possibly be thinking, accepted coffee and tried to pull herself together. She could not face what had happened to her just yet, especially here in a diner, in public. She needed someone to talk to, someone who would listen to her in a quiet space, away from her bustling reality. Figures, she was in a place that she was a stranger to everyone. But, even if she was home right now, she knew she could never find anyone who would care to listen.