I'd Love It If We Made It

FOUR

I parted with my old and trusty crutches today. It only took me four weeks after the accident to do it, which was much less than the original six weeks the emergency room doctor had predicted. Thankfully, my physical therapist had decided otherwise.

I still had to wear this clunky, support boot, but living without crutches had been even better than I remembered. I could get up from the couch without help from another person. I could walk around my apartment without bumping into things constantly. Even better, I could physically leave my apartment. I'd never been happier to be on the ground floor of my apartment building than now. Even the sound of my noisy upstairs neighbors didn't matter when I could escape the confines of my apartment for the fresh air of the city.

The only real problem is that I still tired fairly quickly. The boot only gets me so far before my still-healing ankle starts to swell painfully against the cushioned metal. Luckily, I don't have far to go today. I only have one block before I make it to the small diner where I'll be meeting Stan for dinner. He had demanded that he had to take me out to celebrate me being off the crutches officially. In the end, I had agreed to a quick dinner before his shift at the museum on the condition that we split the bill. He had fought me on it, but inevitably gave in.

When I reach the entrance to the diner, a woman is exiting just as I'm about to enter. She steps out of my way, holding the door open with a smile when she sees the boot wrapped around my foot. I thank her, shimmying clumsily through the door and into the restaurant.

"Hi!" The hostess greets cheerily. "What can I do for you today?"

The enthusiasm in her tone is unmatched in comparison to the usual New York City fashion. It takes me be surprise slightly, having expected the no-nonsense, fast-paced, and always slightly annoyed bluntness that people in her role usually used without fail.

"I uh- I'm supposed to be meeting someone here." I reply, eyes scanning around the diner. Stan is nowhere in sight. It's a little unusual, Stan is always early to every plan we make. I'm not used to being the first one to arrive. Before I can move any further on into the conversation, the door to the diner swings open again behind me. I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see Stan arriving. I instantly recognize the familiar face, only it's not Stan at all.

"Hey, sorry I'm late." He sighs, brushing his hand through his hair and shaking off the cool outside air. He comes to a stop by my side, as if this had been the plan all along, then turns to the hostess casually. "Can we get a table for two, please?"

My mouth falls open, slightly parted in shock, but the hostess beats me too the punch line.

"Of course, hon." She says, grabbing two menus.

"Can you make it a table close by?" He asks, looping his arm over my shoulder like he's an old friend, not the man who'd gotten me fired. "Can't let this one tire herself out in her new fancy boot."

The hostess peers over the edge of her stand to look at my feet.

"Oh you poor thing!" She exclaims with a pout. "What on earth happened to you?"

I feel Steve's arm stiffen slightly at her question. This reaction finally prompts me into finding my voice again.

"Some asshole pushed me over." I answer, with a grin. "The guy left me up three flights of stairs with a broken ankle. A real hit and run type situation."

The grip of Steve's arm around my shoulder tightens.

"Well that's just awful!" The hostess says, moving out from behind her podium and pointing towards a table a few feet away, tucked in the front window. "Did they ever catch the guy who did it?"