She dipped the wand of the espresso machine into a small
pitcher of milk, released the steam valve and adjusted the positions of both
with the slight hesitance of remembered, though out of practice,
perfection. She smirked when the steam
hit the surface of the milk just so and the diner filled, briefly, with the
sound of frothing milk.
It was a nothing restaurant -- a chain that snaked around highways
that snaked between the small town South and sprawling, confused hinterland separating
it from everything beyond.
The booths and wallpaper were identical in every link of the
chain but only this one had her. He
thought her smirk belied a past life of big city bookshops where she worked in
bohemian districts. He thought of
early morning walks replaced by a grey commute. But why did she move back home?
He imagined her life, just as I imagined his.
