05.07.2008 / EP. 7
Back to Bed
The Diner was Albany’s trendy spot for breakfast. Open around the clock, it featured bright red upholstery and motorcycle décor with a toy train that ran a circuit just below the ceiling. It was a favourite with truckers. Some parts were dimly lit, others bright. The Diner attracted couples who didn’t want to be seen, writers who wound themselves hyper after midnight and couldn’t reattach themselves to the planet, political assistants calming down after marathon strategy sessions, all-night goths and rockers, truck drivers squeezing an extra hundred miles out of the day. Carrie’s windshield washers lulled Milly to sleep. “We’re here,” Carrie shook Milly. Heads turned as they entered. They made an odd couple: Milly the Nordic blonde, Carrie the Celtic minx. “I wish I could turn heads,” Carrie said.
“You do.”
“Not like you.”
“It’s ingrained in people, a meaningless reflex. It doesn’t count.”
“Still.”
“And not if it happens every time you enter a room.” Milly excused herself. She splashed cold water on her face and studied herself in the mirror. Did I kill somebody? She had no idea. One thing’s for sure, she thought. I look like death.
“You want to be anonymous. Is that your goal in life?” Carrie asked when Milly returned to the table.
“It’s too early in the day for psychoanalysis. Or too late.”
“Anonymous is good in the security trade,” Carrie continued, as though Milly hadn’t spoken. Maybe she has an ego problem, thought Milly. They shared an omelette with bacon, hash browns and brown toast. Carrie had coffee and two refills. Milly drank three cups of espresso. “Got to stay awake,” she said, pushing back her plate. “I feel better. So, a couple of addicts out for cash. That how you see it?”
The pixie nodded.
“Except I’m here.”
“I wondered about that. You couldn’t sleep, thought you’d put in a couple of hours.”
Milly nodded. “I had a call,” she said.
“From?”
Milly shook her head. “I won’t lie.”
“Tell the truth then.”
“Not that either.” Except that Milly’s head was spinning. Vertigo. Too much espresso, she decided. She fell. Carrie caught her, and a couple of truckers from the next table helped carry her out. The truckers were exceptionally young and fit.
“Anson eh,” Milly said, trying for “Handsome aren’t they?” but not making it by a mile. When she woke up, her head ached. It felt stuffed with cotton wool. And she couldn’t move her hands. “I’m leaving you with a friend,” Carrie said. A figure replaced her in Milly’s line of sight.
“You’re dead,” Milly said.
May 7th, 2008 at 2:26 pm
Like, are y leaving clues? Is this a puzzle? And how come you’re feeding us this story bit by bit?