We said good morning and I asked if there was somewhere I could wash my face.
When I got back she came over and I ordered the thirty-cent breakfast special. There wasn’t even a cook. Once she had my order, she went behind the counter to fix it herself. She moved without hurrying. Twenty years ago she’d been the prettiest girl in Gault or some other little town. Now she had a little extra around the hips and still no ring that I could see. The ceiling sagged pretty badly by the steam table, and looked like it had for a while. I wondered where I was going to sleep.
She came back and set my order down: three eggs up, home fries, four link sausages, and rye toast, all on thick, chipped plates, plus a big glass of orange juice and a coffee in a cup with a blue stripe around it. She gave me the rag end of a smile as I tucked in.
It was all good, and the coffee was better. When I finished it I ordered the same all over again.
“You can eat,” she said.
“When they let me,” I said.
I put down the second breakfast and wiped my plate with bread, and she refilled my cup.
Then she stood beside me holding the pot. I was looking into my wallet. “Can you make it?” she said gently.
It seemed a long time since I’d heard anyone speak gently.
“Just about,” I said.
She set the pot on the heater and came back over. She sat herself down across from me. You could tell it felt good for her to get off her feet. I put down my wallet.
“Looks like you work with your hands,” she said.
I looked down at them myself. That when I noticed it, a dark gold hair on the sleeve of my jacket.
She watched me pick it off and drop it on the floor.
“What do you need done?” I said.
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