Covet

| Homecoming

Covet - Verb. Yearn to possess (something, especially something belonging to another)

A vicious rain lashed against the sedan. The windscreen wipers operated double time to keep the view ahead clear. The road blurred before me as mascara stung, smudging under my eyes. I wiped away tears and took one last deep breath before pressing harder on the accelerator.

One day ago, three words had shattered everything. Until now, I hadn't had the chance to think, much less grieve over my change in circumstances. Reality finally began to bite when I shifted my car into gear and onto the open highway this morning.

I needed money and fast.

My life waited for me; friends, college, and the future. The cross-state journey had taken five hours longer than expected, and the roads and highway signs were unfamiliar. As I sifted through crumpled receipts on the passenger side for Lucille's address, my belly groaned in protest when passing the last interstate services before entering the town of Benton.

A diner came into view, shrouded by an alpine forest. A Ford Bronco and a red Chevy pickup lined the perimeter of a derelict lot; singled out by an illuminated neon welcome sign that flickered in the dark. Despite a commitment to reach Lucille's before all light became lost from the sky, my stomach was not a democracy. My belly made the sound of a dying whale, and in a moment of indecision, I expelled a stressed breath and pulled off the road—to hell with it. I needed to eat.

I cut the engine in the parking lot; the downpour outside eased into specks. The crisp night air bit at my bare arms, causing a shiver of goosebumps as I stepped out.

All vehicles had local plates, making the rounded peaches on mine appear foreign. A bell jingled as I pushed open the door. Grilled meat and fried onions cast a smoky haze above me as a single waitress hurried back and forth. Cracked leather booths lined the windows with five remaining customers. Taped to the pay phone in the corner was a hand-scribbled out-of-order sign.

The waitress sidled up on the seat beside me, whistling a tune of her own making, and produced a notepad and pen from the apron fixed around her waist. "What can I get you?" she asked, her pen poised to capture my order.

"What's good?" I asked, casting a look over my shoulder. The diner had seen better days, stuck somewhere in the nineteen-fifties, and not in a retro fashion.

She frowned. "None of it, but people don't come here for the experience or my advice. Sal will fix you a burger."

"Fine by me," I replied.

The waitress scribbled down my order on her notepad before tucking it back into her apron. "Coming up then," she said. Rounding the counter, the waitress hung my order on a row of suspended clips, and then stopped to refill the mugs of an elderly couple who held hands across their booth.

The waitress was in her mid-sixties with a back-combed mass of red curls that failed to disguise the thinning hair on her crown. Thick orange lipstick amplified her ruddy complexion in all the wrong ways. The name tag on her uniform read 'Pamela.'

She reappeared beside me a few moments later, placing a napkin and a steaming cup of coffee that I had yet to order. "Are you passing through?"

"Short summer stay. I'm back to college in the fall." After sipping the drink, I reached for the sugar, poured and stirred. "I used to visit as a kid; I didn't think I'd ever return."

"I said the same thing once." Her steely blue eyes misted over. "Certain things keep you coming back, doncha think? Creamer?"

I shook my head. People clanked cutlery onto plates as they finished their meals. Booths emptied, leaving one customer with his back to the rest of the diner and a baseball cap tugged low.