The soft rays of light begin to creep through the shielding blinds of the old diner, casting its warm glow on torn stool tops and scratched counters. I glance up at the wall clock to catch it clicking away the last seconds of six o'clock and the day is just beginning. I've forgotten how long I've been sitting here but I'll sit here for however long it takes until I get this right.
I negligently swirl the cold, black coffee in my cup, instantly creating countless tiny ripples; ripples that, for a second, catch an intruding beam of light, shimmer with radiance, and then quickly fade once more. Like the dull phase following a brutal storm, when the silence drowns out the distracting noise of chaos and everything begins to settle back to normality. The pristine white porcelain reflects onto the whirling coffee and I can see my image staring back at me in my cup. And of course, it reminds of us.
Black and white, always polar opposites complimenting each other so perfectly. She was grounded and I was always a dreamer. She was poetic, heroic couplets, and I, old worn-out rock lyrics. She was the sturdy, leather bound vintage book and I was just the tattered and recycled, old magazine.
I don't even try to spike my bland coffee with the illicit contents of the hidden flask inside my jacket. No, not today because today is her birthday. It's her birthday somewhere out there under the same orange glowing sun that is currently sweeping over me. I relish in the last, long drag of my cigarette before crushing it against the ashtray (she was never fond of smokers either). If I wanted this to be perfect, things would have to change, I would have to put away all my addictions and I'd have to mean it.
That was something she was always real big on. Honesty and purpose. You always had to really mean things with her otherwise they just didn't count in her book. Someone should have let me in on that little secret right off the bat. I don't have a freakin' clue why I do half the things I do. But she always knew. She always had some unresolved reasoning behind her actions. Her moves were always clear and precise; like life was just one big delicate chessboard to her and rash move could cost her that valuable knight (overanalyzing always was one of her biggest flaws). So I'm moving in my Queen for the checkmate.
The scrambled eggs and bacon stare back at me in their pathetic, limp state and I'm beginning to wonder if maybe I should have just ordered a plain chocolate muffin. Two taps of the stale bread against the plate (two loud clanks, I should say) let me know it would probably be best to skip breakfast for today. I try to brush off all the scattered crumbs I've managed to spill all over my paper but its no use – I can still feel the surviving, microscopic crumbs pressing against my hand when I try to write a fresh, new line.
I always hated how stubborn she was about everything . So damn adamant about her convictions, it would take her days before she finally managed to let out a meek apology. As soon as those two words that tasted so bitter on her tongue had slipped out, she'd briskly look away, desperately searching for any boring object to catch her attention. Even though she'd never say it, you could tell she was hoping the embarrassing moment would pass by quicker. But her innate obstinacy was secretly a charm – one that I will never admit out loud, of course.
This pen is definitely starting to irritate me. Note to self: Never buy the 99 cents pens again – there's a reason why they're just 99 cents. The ink clots are freezing up within the narrow tube, hindering me from permanently recording these remaining lyrics onto my last piece of crumbled paper (I've been trying to get this right for a while now). Viciously banging the pen against the counter seems to work, but the waitress apparently doesn't approve since she's sending me the most menacing death glare I've ever seen.
She always knew exactly what she wanted. Even when she left for England, she had been entirely convinced that it was the right choice for her personal growth. I hated how she was always right. . . So I can't blame her for any of it. She has that steadfast strength that the rest of us can only dream of having; the kind of determination that molds you into someone real important, someone everyone stops to look at when you're walking down the street. The unbreakable will that plays are written about, and movies are made of – the ones that tell that familiar story about a girl who fought against the entire world and managed to come up on top. About the girl who got her happy ending.
I glance down and notice my paper has suffered the consequences of my breakfast disaster and is now mottled with all sorts of unknown food substances, reminding me that my time is running out. With a quick, manic scribble, I polish off my final musical composition for her and jump off the stool. I smile at the waitress, leaving my tip (as well as my pen) on the counter and reach for that cold, metal handle.
The score is two to none now, Ash, and you'll have no choice but to let me in again.