Two Sides of the Coin
Rating: Teen/Mature
Part Six
"Excuse me?" Liz said. "I don't have any cards to lay on the table. You seem to know all about me, and my life. You're the mystery. You won't even tell me your name."
"Come off it, Liz," Zan said. "You know exactly who I am. You just won't say it."
"Excuse me," the bus driver said, approaching them hesitantly. "This is the last stop."
"We're talkin' here!" Zan shouted, his New York accent growing more pronounced as his anger grew.
"We're sorry," Liz said, standing up quickly. "We're leaving, and please, excuse my friend here. He just woke up and he's cranky when he hasn't had his coffee."
Liz hurriedly gathered her belongings, climbed over Zan and exited the bus. She didn't wait for the depot staff to offload the luggage. She just reached into the luggage compartment and grabbed her bag. She looked around trying to locate Zan, and allowed herself a smile of relief when she couldn't spy him.
She slipped easily into the crowds milling about and quickly made her way out of the busy terminal. Once on the sidewalk, she shivered, her body unaccustomed to the cold northern air.
"Here, why don't you take this," a voice behind her said.
Liz turned her head in dismay, unsurprised to see Zan standing behind her, shrugging off his leather jacket.
"God, will you just go away?" She said in resignation.
"Nope," Zan responded, grinning.
His grin wrenched Liz's heart, dredging up reminders of Max's smiling face, but she forced herself to ignore the emotions and glared at him.
"You know, there's a law against what you're doing. It's called stalking."
"Yeah, whatever," Zan said, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. "Where are we going from here?"
I'm going to get something to eat," Liz said, placing heavy emphasis on the word I'm. "I really don't care what you do as long as you leave me alone."
"No can do, babe," Zan said. "So, how do you feel about Mexican? Some guy inside said there's a place just down the street called La Carreta, and it isn't half bad. I'd say let's get pizza, but unless you're in New York, there ain't no point in getting' a pie."
"Get whatever you want," Liz said. "Just get it from a place I'm not." She grabbed her bags and stormed off in the direction of a nearby coffee shop.
Liz opened the door and the steamy warmth of the shop beckoned t her. She willingly crossed the threshold and sat down in the first empty seat she encountered. She looked around, enjoying the homey atmosphere of the cozy eatery, grabbed a menu and quickly made a decision.
"Can I help you?" a waitress asked. She stood beside the table, order pad in hand; ready to take Liz's food order. Liz smiled when she saw her, for she reminded her very much of Agnes who worked at her parent's café back in Roswell. Well, she looked like Agnes. If she was willingly standing here, taking Liz's order, she was nothing like Agnes at all.
"Um, can I have a bowl of chicken noodle soup, and a chicken sandwich on white, toasted, light on the mayo. Oh and a cup of coffee, please. It's freezing out there."
"Sure thing," the waitress said, scribbling the order on her pad. "Anything else?"
"Oh, yeah, actually, you don't happen to sell newspapers here, do you?" Liz asked, hopefully.
"Sell, no," the waitress said. "But I'm sure we have one laying around that you can look at."
"Thanks!" Liz called to the retreating figure. Liz resumed her cursory observations of the small restaurant, and within a matter of minutes, the waitress returned and placed a steaming cup of coffee and a newspaper on the table in front of Liz.
"Here you go. It's a bottomless cup here, so just signal if you want a refill. Food will be out in a minute."
"Thanks again," Liz said, vowing to leave the waitress a whopping tip for her great service. She added sugar and milk from the creamer on the table, to her cup with a lavish hand, and took a large sip, enjoying the feeling of warmth coursing through her body. She sighed contentedly, and opened the paper and began to scan the help wanted section. She pulled out her journal and jotted down several possibilities before turning her attention to the apartment rentals.
The waitress returned placing a streaming bowl of soup in front of Liz, along with her sandwich on a platter arranged around a heaping mound of French fries.
"Oh, I didn't order any fries," Liz said.
"Comes with the sandwich," the waitress said, brusquely. "Enjoy."
Liz picked p the spoon after the waitress left, and dipped it into the soup. The first mouthful was rich and flavorful. Wide noodles, which could only be homemade, competed for space with large chunks of chicken meat and orange carrots. She savored each spoonful of the homemade soup before turning her attention to the sandwich.
Slices of real chicken, not the processed meat from a deli, lay nestled between crisp pieces of lettuce and red juicy slices of tomato. Liz sighed in ecstasy as she bit into the sandwich. It had to be the best sandwich she had ever eaten in her life. It filled a hunger she had only half realized she had. Not a hunger for food, but a hunger for normalcy. The kind of normalcy you could only get by eating something as mundane as a chicken sandwich and a bowl of soup.
"Got enough for two?" a voice asked.
Liz ground her teeth in frustration, and tried to contain the surge of anger that rushed through her body. She ignored Zan and focused instead on the now empty soup bowl. It vibrated on the table before it shattered into pieces.
"Damn it!" Liz cried in frustration. "Look what you made me do."
"Whoa, look, the girl's got some serious power goin' on," said Zan. "And it goes boom when she gets pissed. How Rath-like of you."
Liz help up her hand and yelled for Zan to stop. She watched in horror as Zan went flying cross the coffee shop, coming to rest at the base of the counter.
"Stop, just stop!" Liz said. "I'm not like Rath! Just leave me alone, Max! It's you, you're doing this to me!" she shouted.