I polish the counter, the coffee machine, my smile. Mama stays out back. She says I’m the face of the company.
I wipe tables and scrub chilli fries and gossip from the red-leather booth seats. On table six, Sheriff Hernandez sits opposite Elena Garcia. Elena has amber eyes flecked with yellow stars and waves of tumblin’ ebony hair. She is two years older than me, two bra sizes bigger and she is everything.
Elena smiles, showing the dimple in her cheek. The sheriff talks gruff and low and Elena answers, ‘yes sir, no sir,’ in that breathy little-girl way she has. When Elena leans back and chews a strand of hair between bubble-gum lips, the sheriff spills his strawberry shake right across the table. He hisses godammit and dabs his crotch with a sugar-pink napkin.
Mama storms from out back and slams a fresh shake on the table. She fixes Sheriff Hernandez with a look. Elena smiles and asks for a house burger.
Mama makes the best burgers in the county. She has jars filled with spices and small-town secrets. On Wednesdays, it’s the two for one special. Wednesdays are our busiest day.
When they leave, Sheriff Hernandez covers his crotch with his hat. His other hand rests real low on Elena Garcia’s back.
I clear the plates and scoop up the Sheriff’s large tip. Mama throws leftovers in the garbage and makes the sign that says button your mouth. We ain’t seen nothin’.
We see a whole heap of nothin’ here.
The diner is the only one in town. The only one for miles.
Kathy Hoyle’s work is published in literary magazines such as The Forge, Emerge literary journal, New Flash Fiction Review, South Florida Poetry Journal and Fictive Dream. She has won a variety of competitions including The Bath Flash Fiction Award and The Hammond House Origins Competition.
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