Tasha was quiet.
Then, gently, “Everybody keeps some things.”
I opened my eyes.
“She was my mother.”
“Exactly.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.
It’s just permission for her to have been a whole person before she was yours.”
That stayed with me.
For the rest of the night.
At nine the next morning, my manager called to tell me I was late.
I informed him I was not scheduled until eleven.
He informed me that Lorraine had called off.
I informed him that this sounded like a Lorraine problem.
He threatened to cut my Friday shift.
I was at the diner by 9:45.
Being poor did not allow for dramatic principles.
By noon, I had refilled thirty-seven coffees, dropped one plate of hash browns, been called “sweetheart” by six strangers, and earned twenty-two dollars in tips.
At 12:17, a man in a charcoal coat walked into the diner.
I recognized him from the garage.
