Inspired by ooey-gooey cinnamon rolls this time 'round.
I'm such a fruitcake.
ssg.x.
Let it all come down tonight
Keep those tears hid out of sight
Let it loose
Let it all come down
Well, well, well.
Her face is drawn. More angular. It makes her lips look fuller and her eyes deeper set. Her hair is longer, too. A little darker than I remember it. And at first I think it's just someone who looks like her. I think it can't be her because this woman's about a decade too old to be her. And then I remember that, yeah, it's been almost a decade since I last saw her. Seven going on eight yearsto be precise.
It's Faye Valentine.
Well, well, well.
She recognizes me right away. She's reading a book at a table in the back, close to an old jukebox that now serves only as an accessory to further the ambience in the old greasy-spoon style diner. If I'd taken up in my favourite booth by the window overlooking the gas station only seconds sooner we might not have spotted eachother.
I come by occasionally for the best god-damned cinnamon rolls in the universe. Or I did. The owner's wife died about eight months ago and apparently took the recipe with her to her grave. Now I just have the apple and rhubarb pie. It's okay, I suppose. It's certainly no cinnamon roll, though.
I'm getting cranky in my old age.
Yesterday I turned forty-five. I closed up shop early and came out here to celebrate with a slice of pie and a gin and tonic later at Ledbetter's. I didn't tell the missus it was my birthday. We've been together two years. She's never asked and I've never felt obliged to tell her. We get along perfectly.
Faye and I do this dance for a moment or so. She smiles, I smile. She nods, I nod. She waves, I wave. Both of us are trying to figure out if the other is receptive to our company. Faye finally motions with book in hand to the empty chair across from her. I place my order with the girl behind the counter tonight and take Faye up on her offer.
"Hey, old man," she says, still smiling.
"I almost didn't recognize you," I twirl hair that hasn't been seen anywhere on my scalp for twenty years around my index finger, "Your hair's longer."
"Yeah. Hides the crow's feet. This aging thing isn't all it's cracked up to be," she replies. I nod in her direction, "You look great, Faye. The years have been good to you"
She knows it, but she blushes and waves the compliment away, chuckling. I'm happy I can still make a woman blush.
We're both quiet for a minute or two. The silence is comfortable, though, just like old times. A silence once broken only by Spike's bellowing about an empty fridge or a shortage of hot water, now interrupted by the waitress laying down cutlery, a napkin dispenser, and a slice of apple rhubarb pie on a plate.
"What're you reading there?" I ask. Faye looks at the spine of the book as though just realizing she had it.
"The Stone Angel. It's a little slow. I don't know. I'm enjoying it, I guess," she places the book on the table and shoves it towards me, "I picked it up from some used book store on the way over here. I don't like sitting by myself without something to look at. I feel sort of exposed. It sounds a little silly coming from me, I guess. I can't really explain it."
I pull the newspaper I havetucked into the inside pocket of my trenchcoat and lay it down on the table. Faye grins, eyes shining.
"It's good to see you, old man. Being a good boy? Tell me what you've been up to. "
"Not much. We have a little lunchbox stand in Shipley. It's a little fishing village about three hours from here by car."
"No more ship?" she asks, almost looking sad to hear the news. I sigh, "Nah. I got tired of the docking and fuel fees. Prices just kept getting higher and higher. And all that space for someone who spends most of his time in one or two rooms was just a waste."
"And who's 'we'?" Faye's eyebrows raise expectantly, a smile plays music on her pink lips.
"Her name's Margaret. We opened the stand together after she convinced me to sell the Bebop. After all the huffing and puffing I did over that piece of junk, I can't say I was too sad to see it go when I finally got a fair price for it. I'm stubborn, is all. After you kids left, it was big and empty and I didn't like it. But memories. Memories are like chains. They sort of hold you to things, objects and cities and…"
"That's why I'm here today," Faye laughs. "This place used to have the best –"
"—cinnamon rolls," I finish. Faye seems to relax in her chair and I pick up the book from the table and start thumbing through it.
"Yeah. But they haven't had those things in a while now. But I keep coming here. Like they're just gonna miraculously appear again," she says quietly. Faye pulls out her lighter and the flash of its silver catches my eye. She flips the cap of the old zippo off, on, off, and then on again. She's not talking about cinnamon rolls. And that's not her lighter.
"Do you read a lot of books these days?" I ask.
Faye nods, "Yeah. A few."
She has a far away look on her face. It had trespassed on her features often during the time she'd been on the ship. Long before he left. It still leaves me feeling cold and I find myself looking away from her face and back to the pages of the book in my hands.
"How'd you come by that, by the way?"
"What? The lighter?" Faye turns it betweenthe fingers of both hands a couple of times as though seeing it for the first time, "I borrowed it from his room one night. I never had the chance to put it back. A couple of cigarettes went missing and all hell broke loose. He watched me like a hawk after that."
My face must betray something or another because she suddenly says rather tersely, "It's not what you think. It's not because of him. I'm not alone because he left me with any expectations. If anything I'm alone because he put me off men."
I always thought it was something that had only evolved over the past fifty years, but Faye Valentine was proof that apparently women in the last years of the twentieth century could read men's minds, too. I don't tell her this, though. If she's still up to her old tricks, Faye Valentine is dangerous enough to men just as she is.
"If you give me back the lighter, I can give it back to him. I visit him sometimes," I offer. Faye unconsciously clutches the lighter to her chest. Her eyes widen, her little mouth opens and I feel like my next words are going to be like a knife in her chest. But she knows. Of course she knows. It's the reason she left. I clear my throat, "I mean where he's buried. I found the place about a year or so after…"
"Where?" she asks quietly.
"Not far from here. It's a potter's field off Highway 201. It's unmarked. It took me some time to find it. I had to fill out and submit some forms to get a map from the City Hall. All the plots are numbered. The whole process took ages. If you want to visit I can –"
She cuts me off fiercely, "I don't."
I start a little and she seems to get a hold of herself, clumsily dropping the lighter into the leather bag at her feet. Her eyes return gently, albeit a little less focused, to mine.
"I have enough chains dragging me here and there," she says. I nod carefully, afraid she might crack at even the slightest sound. I place the book gingerly on the table before her and slowly start sawing at my slice of pie, forking a hunk of it into my mouth. Faye watches me silently. This silence is different from the earlier one. I feel a shiver move mercilessly slow along my spine.
"What's the number?"
I don't look up, "667."
Faye chokes back a laugh, "That's funny."
"What's funny?" I ask. I'm getting through the pie faster than I'd planned. I feel bad but I want to leave. I want to get away from Faye. She's looking at me with those bewitching green eyes of hers that seem to bar anyone from seeing inside her head. I suddenly yearn for Margaret's soft and welcoming grey eyes. I suddenly feel guilty for not letting her know what I was up to tonight. She's probably home from her sister's already and wondering where I am.
"Potter's fields never have a plot 666. They skip it because of the religious connotations, I guess. That means he's really 666," Faye explains. She grins, "How many times did I tell you that guy was the spawn of Satan? I wasn't that far off."
I can't help but laugh. He'd laugh, too. I'm sure of it. I'm pretty superstitious and I don't usually speak ill of the dead, especially since they make up the majority of my current circle of friends. He'd think it was funny, though.
I sit back in the chair after the last bite of pie. Faye sweeps her book into the leather bag now seated on her lap. She digs her arm elbow-deep into the bag, rummages around for a minute or so and retrieves the lighter. She tosses it across the table at me. I look at it curiously as she gathers the black coat hanging on the back of her chair into her arms, the bag hanging from her shoulder.
"For your birthday. It was yesterday, wasn't it?"
I blink.
"How'd you know that?"
Faye shrugs, "He told me once. How old are you, old man?"
"Forty-five. How'd he know?"
Faye smiles, "Who knows?" she raises several fingers waving limply, "It was nice seeing you."
"You, too, Faye," I say. And I mean it.
She shakes her head like she's just come out of a trance and hurriedly makes her way to the door. She turns halfway to face me. I look up at her expectantly.
"Here's another birthday present for you. You were right. Whatever you were thinking about me and…You were right," she pauses to think for a moment, "I don't remember reading a single book when I was on that ship of yours."
And then she's gone.
I sit there for a few minutes longer. I leave some cash and the newspaper on the table then head out, lighting a cigarette before I even hit the sidewalk.
I decide to skip Ledbetter's and head straight home instead. I don't want Margaret to worry.
Lyrics from The Rolling Stones' Let It Loose were used. Please don't sue.