Tinfoil Heart

by Daisy Prescott

  His laughter surprises me. I wasn’t sure if he could laugh at all. The sound coming out of his mouth is deep, rich, and kind of sweet, like a mocha. Irresistible.

  At four a.m., I’m lying awake thinking about a man’s laugh.

  I can’t sleep.

  The AC hums to life, jogging through it’s cooling cycle. Thick adobe walls keep the casita cool, but I like the white noise of the window air conditioner. Especially at night, when the quiet invites old memories to replay in my head.

  Or in this case, new memories.

  For months I’ve stared at Mr. Mustachioed while being comfortably ignored. I like the invisibility and anonymity of being a stranger in a new town.

  Sure, the regulars know my name, but they don’t really care who I am as long as I bring their food and listen to their chatter. A smile, a fake laugh, and a compliment is more than enough of me to give them.

  He’s different.

  For the first time in months, I feel seen.

  One glance, one moment of eye contact, and I’m no longer invisible.

  I’m not sure how I feel about this.

  Despite the air conditioner blowing cool air into my tiny bedroom, my skin is hot. Tossing off the thin cotton blanket, I starfish on my back for maximum cooling.

  Instead, the soft breeze on my bare skin reminds me of the dream that woke me up almost an hour ago.

  One conversation, if that’s what we even had, and I’m dreaming about the tickle of soft facial hair brushing against my body. Specifically my thighs and stomach.

  I woke up before the good part and now I’m restless, hot, and unsatisfied. Damn subconscious. Too long since I’ve had the real thing and now I can’t even get the good stuff in a dream.

  Rolling over, I press my pillow over my head and kick my legs in frustration.

  Mustache and his stupid observational skills. He made a point of scooping up the pile of mints and taking them all with him. Suddenly he really cares about his post breakfast breath. Or he was making a point.

  Either way, he left exactly twenty percent for a tip. Same as normal.

  At least that hasn’t changed.

  I need those tips. Private investigators are expensive.

  What I don’t need for rent, car, food, and insurance mostly goes to paying an investigator.

  The latest guy swears he’s an expert in missing persons.

  I’ve heard that before, but hope is a habit.

  An expensive habit.

  Knowing I won’t be able to fall back asleep, I get up.

  Might as well shower and dress for work.

  And, of course, by work I mean seeing him.

  The man I’ve been fantasizing about, the one who’s spoken a few dozen words to me.

  At this point, I’m sexually frustrated. I need to have an early morning session with my shower head so I don’t explode if he smiles at me again. I might spontaneously orgasm if he touches me.

  It occurs to me that my crush might be bordering on obsession.

  I make a promise with myself that if I ever steal his used napkin or lick the fork he ate with, I’ll check myself into a mental ward. Once I tell them about the alien abduction of my father, they’ll lock me up.

  It might be nice. Yes, I’ve thought about this before. Three meals a day, activities, someone who has to listen to me even if they’re paid to do so. Sounds kind of lovely.

  Right. I really need coffee if I’m considering how much better life would be if I were in a mental hospital.

  This is why I’m going to die alone. If anyone had any idea of the crazy thoughts going through my head, especially when I’m tired and under-caffeinated, they’d put me away. Sometimes I freak myself out. Yikes.

  I’VE NEVER LIKED corned beef hash, but now I can’t stop thinking about it. Not the actual meat but the low, masculine growl of the man who ordered it yesterday. Only he could possibly make chopped beef sound sexy. Heaven help me, I could develop a fetish based solely on him speaking random menu items.

  We need to go back to the time when he didn’t speak. Or kept his response to grunts and monosyllabic barks. I can handle those. Pretty sure I’m immune.

  The sun isn’t up yet when I pull into a parking spot behind the diner. If the front lot is filled with the shiny corporate trucks of oil workers and dust-covered SUVs of traveling families, the employee area is a mess of older vehicles whose better days were a decade ago. A tale of two parking lots reveals the difference between us and them.

  Loud music pours out of the back door when I tug it open. Tony sings along to the Spanish lyrics at top volume while flipping a mountain of hash browns on the grill.

  “You have a lovely singing voice, Tony. You should audition for one of those singing competitions on TV. You could be famous.”

  “You’re late.” He turns down the volume on the old school radio he keeps on a shelf near the range.

  “I’m not.” I double check the clock on the wall above our time cards. “Five-thirty on the nose.”

  “That’s not early, so it must be late. Remember when you used to show up twenty minutes before your shift and sit in your car? What happened to that woman?”

  “She realized she could get fifteen minutes more sleep and still make it to work on time.”

  “I like the other version better.” He switches out his spatula for a spoon to stir a large pot full of bubbling, red sauce.

  “Then you weren’t paying attention. Those extra minutes of sleep make me a much nicer person. Add in coffee and some might even call me pleasant.”

  I dump my bag in my cubby before wrapping a black apron around my waist. The big boss man doesn’t insist on a set uniform and doesn’t require us to wear aprons, but I like them. I feel like Mr. Rogers putting on his cardigan. My apron sets the mood. I switch from real Lucy to Waitress Lucy. Easier to play a role of friendly server if I have the right costume.

  “Wanda called and she’s going to be late. Mind starting the coffee and getting the dining room ready?”

  “Everything okay with her?” I ask, reaching for my favorite mug decorated with a flying pig and the words “I want to believe” above it.

  “I didn’t ask because I don’t want to know the details. Next thing ya know, the three of us will be braiding each other’s hair and gossiping about our love lives. If I want to do that, I’ll watch telenovelas with my mother,” he complains in a gruff tone.

  I stare at his shaved head trying not to laugh.

  “When you’re finished laughing at me, bring me a cup of coffee when it’s ready.”

  I’ve been dismissed and that’s fine with me. There’s no way I want to start sharing personal stuff with Tony the cook. Not that he’s a bad guy, but I’m here in this middle of nowhere place because I like being anonymous. Not here to make friends.

  Up front, I make a pot of regular coffee and one of decaf. Since Tony hasn’t turned up his music again, I yell out to him, “You should get an espresso machine. Partner up with one of the local coffee roasters.”

  He responds by turning up the volume. I could learn a few things about non-verbal communication skills from the man. He’s a master at the not subtle but silent message.

  Keeping the lights off to deter any overly eager early bird customers, I move around the room to make sure we’re ready to open at six. I give the tables a quick wipe with a clean rag and a few squirts from the mystery blend in the spray bottle.

  The scent of brewing coffee drifts above the subtle smell of bleach from the rag. The coffeemaker sputters and puffs out steam as it finishes brewing.

  “Yes,” I whisper and do a small shimmy with joy over the idea of fresh coffee. I’m a firm believer in the expression about dancing like no one is watching, but only when no one is watching.

  I swing my rag over my head in a wide circle to celebrate the impending jolt of caffeine.

  Spinning around, I stumble when I see a figure standing in the entrance from the adjoining convenience store. I might’ve even let out
a small scream of surprise but I’m not sure if the weird dinosaur squawking sound comes from me. It’s not a sound I’ve ever made.

  Then again, I’ve never had table five sneak up on me while I was dancing around with a rag like a sad solo production of the dance of the seven veils.

  “Sorry. I smelled the coffee and assumed you were open.”

  “Your mustache is gone,” I blurt out like I have the right answer on a game show.

  He sweeps his index finger over the smooth skin of his upper lip. “Guess it is.”

  “Why?” I ask, temporarily forgetting we don’t speak other than in restaurant lingo.

  His brow pulls together. “Lost a bet.”

  “And had to shave it?” I don’t know if I’m asking because the thought makes me sad or happy. Mustaches are weird. And often historically malevolent.

  His finger returns to stroke the newly smooth skin, but he doesn’t respond right away.

  My skin prickles as he scrutinizes me, evaluating me. For the first time I feel like he actually sees me, not just a waitress who brings his breakfast.

  He drops his hand and steels his shoulders. “What’s your name?”

  “Why?” My voice barely lifts above a whisper.

  “I realize I don’t know your name.” Taking a few steps, he moves farther into the diner.

  I swallow down the urge to be snarky. “Lucy.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lucy.” He extends his hand. “I’m Boone.”

  I should tell him I’ve heard some of the other men greet him by name before, but I don’t mention it. I don’t want to ruin this moment. Telling each other our names feels important.

  I hold out my hand and he grips it, warm palm and long fingers wrapping themselves around mine. Our eyes meet and I lose track of the seconds. With a squeeze, he releases my hand. I leave it extended, craving more contact.

  “Is it too early for breakfast?” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “If it is, could I bother you for a cup of coffee in a to-go cup? The stuff they sell in the store is made of tar and the dregs of yesterday’s leftover coffee.”

  With a glance at the clock on the wall, I confirm it’s a few minutes to six.

  “Have a seat.” I point to his usual table.

  “Mind if I sit at the counter?”

  “Why would I?” As I walk over to the coffee station, I give him a genuine smile over my shoulder, even though I’m still embarrassed he witnessed my interpretive dance to the coffee gods. “You’re the only one here and can sit wherever you want.”

  He slips onto a stool and gives it a small spin.

  After pouring him a coffee, I slide a full mug over the counter to Tony in the kitchen.

  “Let me switch on the TVs for you.” Searching near the cash register for the remote, I finally locate it and hit the on button.

  “Don’t do it just for me.”

  I turn to face him. “But you guys always watch the business channel.”

  “Us guys?” A small twitch of his cheek tells me he’s fighting a smile. “I usually sit alone. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

  He’s busted me.

  “The regular breakfast and lunch crowd always watches the same boring blah blah blah about barrel prices and production demands.”

  He studies me, his finger once again stroking the smooth flesh above his lip. Damn it. I want to find out if it’s smooth like his cheekbones or already rough like fine sandpaper as the hair grows back.

  “You’re in oil country, you know that, right?” he says sarcastically. “Around here, people live and breathe crude. Unless a hurricane is in the Gulf and heading toward the refineries or the local football team has a chance to go all the way to state, we don’t care much for local gossip on TV.”

  “Way to be good citizens,” I mumble before I stop myself from starting a speech on the environment and fossil fuels being behind climate change. When I started, Wanda warned me to keep my views to myself. Said no one wants to hear a waitress’s opinion on anything but the coffee and the food.

  “Sorry?” His eyes flash with amusement even though I’ve kind of insulted him.

  “Nothing.” I pick up the remote and turn on the business channel. Normally we mute the sound when it’s busy in here since no one can hear it anyway. Because it’s only him, I turn up the volume before grabbing a mug and three creamers.

  “Did I say something to offend you?” he asks when I set his coffee down in front of him.

  “Not at all. I stopped myself from saying something that might offend you. Tony doesn’t like it when we speak our minds. ‘Here to serve with a smile and keep your shit to yourself’ is his motto. I’m thinking about making a cross-stitch for him.”

  Mustache laughs.

  I’m going to need a new nickname for him. I guess I could start calling him Boone, since that’s his name.

  “I lost a bet and had to grow a mustache and keep it for three months.”

  It takes me a moment to figure out he’s answering my question about his mustache. I pour coffee for myself and add a couple of creamers. “Sounds like a wager you should’ve avoided.”

  He smiles behind his cup. “I was overly confident about winning. Still think there was cheating involved, but I can’t prove it.”

  If I thought he was handsome when he was silent and cranky, I was being naïve. When he smiles, he’s a god amongst us mere mortals. Blinded by his good looks, I focus on stringing words together to keep him talking with me. “Sounds like a serious bet. What did the other guy get for winning?”

  “She. I should’ve known better than to bet against a woman.”

  Girlfriend?

  I’m not sure I want to know more. With a glance at the clock, I decide to unlock the front door. The sun is already up and streaming through the south-facing windows. “Be right back.”

  George, one of the older guys who always sits with a group, gets out of his white truck and strolls inside as soon as I flip the sign.

  “Gonna be a scorcher,” he greets me before sitting down at his regular table. He does a double-take when he spots Boone at the counter.

  “Morning.” Boone dips his chin.

  “Didn’t recognize you without the fuzzy mouth caterpillar. Sharyl let you off the hook early?”

  Torn between wanting to know more about Boone and not wanting to have to know he has a girlfriend, I busy myself with bringing a set of flatware and a glass of ice water to George.

  “Coffee this morning?” I ask.

  “Better make it decaf. Been up since four and already finished a pot. And bring me a glass of tomato juice, no ice, please.”

  I swallow back a small gag. I can’t stand tomato juice. Something about how it clings to the glass after you drink it reminds me of plasma. “Sure thing.”

  Boone openly watches me as I return to the counter. We keep single serve cans of tomato and grapefruit juice in a cooler, along with the mini cups of half and half. When I open the tomato juice, I turn my head so I don’t have to smell it.

  “Not a fan?” he asks, a mix of amusement and curiosity.

  I wrinkle my nose. “What’s the opposite of a fan?”

  “Enemy? Adversary?” he offers as I pour the vile liquid into a small glass.

  “Hater sounds about right.” Shaking my head in disgust, I toss the can in the trash.

  “What about Bloody Mary’s?”

  “Adding vodka would just be a waste of vodka.”

  “You feel very strongly about this. Have you ever tasted it? Some people love it, especially on flights.”

  I stare at him in horror. “I don’t fly, so that won’t ever be a remote possibility of me changing my mind because I’m hurtling through thin air in an aluminum can at thirty thousand feet and suddenly want to drink a glass of liquid tomato. No thank you.”

  “Tomatoes are a fruit, you know. It’s not that crazy to drink the juice.”

  I give him some major side eye before delivering the glass to George. This is the mos
t Boone and I have ever said to each other since I began working here.

  “Ready to order or are you going to wait for the rest of the crew?” I ask George, setting down the glass of tomato juice with a forced smile. While he pretends to study the menu, I sneak glances over at Boone. He catches me a few times and we lock eyes. Even his half smile might be my new favorite thing.

  George clears his throat. “What’s the special?”

  I cast my attention to him. “Same as every Friday. Chicken fried steak, Christmas-style with hash browns.”

  “My heart doctor would kill me for eating that.”

  “I can bring you some oatmeal and a cup of fruit. Or a mini box of cereal with some skim milk and a side of dry wheat toast.” I play my part of our routine.

  “Well,” he drawls out like he’s considering the healthy options, “guess it’s a good thing the good doctor is up in Albuquerque and won’t know I had the chicken fried steak. Skip the red sauce and put some extra green chiles on the side for me.”

  If Wanda were here, she’d convince him to skip the gravy. I say he’s a grown man. “Side o’gravy. Got it.”

  Passing Boone, I ask him if he’s going to order, too.

  “Huevos rancheros, please.”

  I’m tempted to ask him what happened to pecan pancakes, but who am I to judge a man for exploring new things.

  After putting in their orders, I get lost in the morning rush. I barely have time to drop off Boone’s order and fill his coffee. So much for chatting with him. Other than a few stolen glances from me, we don’t interact until he asks for his check. I keep it professional and even give him a mint.

  Figures he has a girlfriend.

  Whoever Sharyl is probably wouldn’t appreciate me flirting with her man.

  “SURE, IF YOU’RE gullible enough to believe the government.” My date jabs his burger with his fork before slicing off a bit with a knife.

  Ignoring that he’s using cutlery to eat a burger with a bun, I decide to dive into the crazy pool with him. There’s no way we’re going on a second date, so might as well have some fun and learn new things. Which is the whole point of these dates. I’m not looking for love.