Late September

Chapter 1

It was another morning. The regulars come in for cups of coffee and what they normally get every Saturday. I pour refills and hand people their fried eggs and toast. Their plates of bacon and the little kids their chocolate chip waffles. I smile now. I find it possible. There is still a ghost in the corner of the room. In the booth he used to sit at every Saturday. But it's been long empty.

I walk up to another table. There's a boy there I know from school. I think his name's Anthony but I'm not sure. He's new. I smile and take out my little notepad. "What can I get you?"

Being a waitress isn't fun at first. You think it's awful. Especially when your shy. You walk up to strangers that know the restaurant better than you if they are regulars or people who don't know what the "Early Morning Riser" is and you have to go through askign them if they want white toast or wheat toast. Sausages or bacon. Orange juice or coffee or milk. But by now I'm used to it. Once you get the hang of it it's an alright job. I work here when I'm groudned and I get paid for it. And even though everyone knows my name, I'm still a nobody. The conversations you overhear are so weird or ridiculous it's funny.

But on Saturdays there's nobody to share them with. And Saturdays are the worse and best. You hear everything. I used to walk over to that corner booth counting my tips on my breaks telling him what I overheard. He'd laugh. To a point he'd be spitting coffee back into his mug laughing. And nobody bothered us until someone called my name reminding me my break was over.

The boy looks up at me and then quickly back down at his menu. Spread out in front of him. He scans it quickly one last time. "I'll have the waffle plate." He said. "With..." He reads the descirption the options. "just bacon, please."

I smile. "That's been the easiest order I've had today," I sigh writing it down. "Thank you." I take his menu.

"It's breakfast how complicated can it be?" He smiles a little. He looks at me. He has these big brown eyes and brown hair that reaches his eyebrows. He's cute.

I laugh. "You'd be surprised." I tuck my notepad into my pocket. "Do you want some more coffee?" I ask.

"Sure," He says. He hasn't stopped looking at me.

"Okay," I say. "I'll be right back."

I make it behind the counter. Seeing Mr. Collons reading his newspaper. I refill his cup of coffee. He looks up and smiels at me weakly. I smile at him to. And walk away. Mr. Collons' wife passed away in May. She had cancer and was really sick. He's been here every morning reading the newspaper so he doesn't feel alone in his big empty house.

I walk back over to the table with that boy sitting there, He's reading now. I pour more coffee into his mug. He shuts his book, holding his place with his thumb. I was taking a step away when I saw the cover. There was a sore pang in my chest. "You like Charles Bukowski?" I ask.

He looks up at me. Then back down at his book. "Yeah," He smiles a little. his big brown eyes taking me in again. "He's my faovrite author."

I smile. "Mine too." I said. I nod at his book. "That's my favorite book by him. It's only short stories, but I love it so much."

He nods smiles a little embarrassed. "I've read this seven times now." He said.

I smile at him. "Your waffles will be out soon." I said. I walk away. My eyes catching the booth in the corner. He gave me my first copy of Hot Water Music on The Fourth of July before last.

The boy with the Charles Bukowski books stays longer than most. When people start leaving it happens quickly. One second you're in a full booming room the next it's trickled down to the quiet few. There's a young couple in the corner. They have a little olive skinned baby that's asleep and they talk softly together and smile and drink coffee. Mr. Collons is on his perch at the end of the coutner reading the newspaper and finally nibbling at the cold toast he ordered two hours ago. He reads two newspapers. One the town newspaper the other the Boston Globe. I don't know why someone would read the Boston globe if they live in California or how they would get it. But it's always a few days older than the date.

There are a few soccer moms feeding their kids who scored goals and are rewarded with my uncle's famous chocolate chip pancakes. But the other waitresses go home I help my mother up until the lunch shift. When if she doesn't need me I can go home.

"Do you want some more coffee?" I ask the Charles Bukowski-boy.

He looks up at me. "Sure," He says. I pour him some more. "I didn't get your name."

I look at him a little surprised. "I'm Corrinne." I say smiling a little.

He smiles at me, putting his hand out for me to shake. "I'm Michael." He said. I switched the coffee pot over to my other hand so I could shake his correctly. "I think I've seen you before. Do you go to West?"

"Yeah," I said. The high school here is called West Mountain High. The "mountains" is these hills that overlook the town and the highways and go really high. Everyone goes there. "I think I've seen you before too."

A group of people came in. "Cory!" My mother called. "You can go home."

"I'll see you later." I said smiling at Michael again. "I'll look for you on Monday."

"Okay," He said. He was still smiling a little. "Bye."

I waved and walked away. Sticking the coffee pot back into the machine. My car was aprked out back. I hung up my apron. Newly stained with coffee and whatever else I had managed to spill on myself. My clumsiness was a part of me no dance class or carefulness could stop. I waved to Nate. He usually switched with my uncle beofre lunch. "See you later Nate."

He steadied himself on his crutches, he was working here because of his accident. He was struck by a car and wasn't healing too well. But the kitchen was perfect. He could hobble around on his crutches and cook. It was fine. He waved to smiling. "See ya' Core."

I slipped out the back. Going down the cement stairs and walking towards my little car. It's small and old. Box-like. Bright yellow too. Like a clown car. All I need is a few flower stickers and an oversized clown in the backseat to complete it. But I'm the only one whose been in it for the past two months.

Every Saturday I've driven to these cliffs. They look over the town. You can't see anything but the little cars. But I park there on the ledge the summer air circulating for the last time before it starts gettign a little cooler. My windows down I sit in the passenger seat instead of the driver. Reading. Of course. This book I was given before I even knew him. Which is one of the reasons I read it over and over again.

It ties me to him less.

Saturdays remind me of him most. It had been one whole summer and he came in the first day. Up all night with his friends. They sat in that corner booth on a seat-yourself-day. And he would talk to me. Asking me stupid embarrassing questions. I finally got pissed that first day and asked him why he was giving me such a hard time. His friends all got out and he put money on the table on top of the bill. He shrugged. "I've never seen someone blush that shade of pink." He said.

I shot him a look and started to walk away.

"No," He had called after me turning and looking at me. I stopped and looked at him. "I didn't mean it in a mean way."

"What way did you mean it?" I was just gettign used ot my job.

He shrugged. And I kept walking. Coming back to find a phone number scibbled on a napkin. Something I would later know as typical Steven Green.

I felt another pang in my chest. It still hurt thinking his name. My eyes fell over the town wondering where he was. In his rickity old van. Was he out there? He was there somewhere but it was like pinpointing an astronaut in the solar system. They were so small in a big plane. but they were hiding somewhere.

I tried my best to get focus again. But when this happened I just sat back and closed my eyes. Pulling my legs up to my chest and breathing. Trying not to snap. I was moving on though. In baby steps.