Sweet relief never came, instead time seemed to pause, invaded by only a few seconds of heavy breathing. Then, as if someone had pressed play on a remote, time started again. Before her on the black concrete knelt a young man, a few years older than her, cursing, apologizing, and berating all at once. Without bothering to process his words, she slurred, "Why did you miss?"
Brown eyes froze, shooting up to meet her own glazed ones. "What da hell ya mean 'Why'd I miss?' Wait, are ya drunk?" Instead of answering, she just looked at him, taking in the wife beater and threadbare jeans. Dragging his hand roughly through his long black hair, which she noticed was unevenly cut, he sighed. "D'ya like pancakes?" April froze, stuck between disbelief and curiosity. The look on her face must have appeared incredulous, because he just laughed and roughly yanked her to her feet and towards the car. Contradicting his manner, he carefully opened the car door for her and gently led her to sit down. Once he insured that she was buckled in, he closed her door and walked to the other side. Before she could finish wondering if this was a stupid mistake, he was in the car and driving.
They sat in silence for a while, both wary of the other and unwilling to make the effort. Maybe it was her alcohol-addled brain, or maybe it was the heady scent of cigarette smoke, but April couldn't find it within herself to protest and was strangely comforted by the man's presence. Just as she was beginning to enjoy the silence, he began rambling. "Arnold Jones, but ya can call me Casey." She glanced at him to show she was listening, but didn't answer. "So, ya gotta name or what?"
Irritated at his brusque tone, she snapped out "April O'Neil" and went back to staring out the window. Not sensing her tone, or perhaps ignoring it, Casey barged on. "How old are ya kid? Ya don't look old enough to be walkin' around this late at night drinkin'."
"I'm not a kid."
"Ya sure look like one."
"I'm seventeen."
"So you're a kid."
At that, her head whipped around and glared at him. "If I'm still a kid, then what are you? A dirty old man? What kinda guy picks up random girls up in the middle on the night anyway?" He snorted, and quickly retorted, "What kinda girl gets into the car of a man she don't know? And I ain't old! I'm only twenty-four." Once again, she turned to look out the window, hyperaware of the dark eyes that remained on her person. She took a deep breath, calling on patience, and asked the question that that been wiggling around in the back of her mind since she had sat down in the car. "Why pancakes?"
His crooked smirk lit up the darkened car and his rambling resumed. "Pancakes are fuckin' amazin'. They cure hangovers, they make early mornin's better, they pretty much fix everythin'." He looked over at her dumbfounded face and could only chuckle, "What they really do!" She shook her head at his presumed stupidity, which prompted him to continue.
"Listen, they're ain't nothin' better than a huge stack of pancakes after a cage fight with a Purple Dragon. They're ain't nothin' like the syrup and butter oozing down the side after a shift at the bar. And they're ain't nothin' like a stack when ya got an early morning class. Pancakes, my dear April, are a cure-all."
She glanced at his smug smile as he drove, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear stick of the car. "So let me guess…if you're getting into cage matches with purple dragons, then you're an underground fighter? That's illegal mister, should you really be scolding me about underage drinking?" In response, he sheepishly scratched the back of his head and chuckled, "About that, I ain't fought a match in years. Right now I'm just Casey Jones-bartender, criminal justice major, and extreme sport enthusiast. Didja know I played hockey professionally once?" April giggled and shook her head, if his speedometer and the cartons of cigarettes were any indication, he also liked driving fast and smoking.
Upon pulling into the diner, their conversation ceased with Casey too busy focusing on getting April to a booth without her stumbling. Inside, she pitched herself into a booth as Casey talked to the older woman behind the counter. With little customers, the place could be considered intimate. It was a small 1950's style place, complete with blinding lights and gleaming chrome. The red pleather behind her back was too stiff to be considered comfortable, but she found it more endearing than annoying.
Casey sat down on the bench across from her, his tall muscular frame dwarfing the table they sat at. With a pot of coffee in hand, he poured two drinks and then relaxed. For a couple of minutes, they sat in comfortable silence. Then Casey leaned forward, elbows on the table, and said the words she had been begging not to hear. "So, April O'Neil. Tell me 'bout yourself. Hobbies? School? Dreams?" Glaring into his eyes, she prayed for an escape. When none happened, she reluctantly began talking.
"April O'Neil. Named for some dead grandmother. 17." She hoped her blunt manner would scare him off of questioning, but instead it did the opposite. "No way missy, this is a hopes and dreams and nightmares kinda talk. Not fluffy 'nice ta meetcha' shit." She snorted and unwillingly smiled.
She took a moment to contemplate him, and seeming to approve, she tried again. "Alright then caveman, I'm a sucker for running and working on computers. You should see my room; it's littered with pieces. Right now, I have no future plans. And by the way? Pancakes are not a cure-all, thank you very much." Casey feigned hurt, placing his hand to his heart and acting like she had shot him. "Just wait 'til ya try these princess. Whaddaya mean 'no future plans'? Everyone's gotta have some." April looked down at the table in an attempt to ignore the guilt, and watched the pattern on the table begin to spin and sway. She looked up from the movement to avoid the nausea she knew would occur.
"It's just, I don't really know what I want to do. I mean, when I was little being a reporter or a scientist seemed cool. But now I'm an adult, and I'm supposed to be realistic and look at an adult job, and just, I don't know." She glanced at Casey to find him looking out the window, all he offered was a bitter, "Yeah, bein' an adult sucks," and then they sunk into silence.
Soon, the older lady from behind the counter placed two stacks of pancakes down in front of them. Casey's dripping syrup and butter, and hers given a whipped cream smiley face. The pancakes themselves came in and out of focus, but she dove into them like they were her last meal. Once again, Casey began chatting, his voice cutting through the tense atmosphere and the shadowy haze at the edge of her consciousness like a knife. She managed to ignore both until halfway through her last pancake and his skydiving story when her world went dark, sweet release coming at the most inopportune moment.