#damien.misc

I pull into the roadside diner along the I-80 somewhere around 4 in the morning. The sky’s still got that bruised look of a sleepless night before sunlight takes its shift. When I walk inside, the place is empty, save the old waitress filling a crossword at a booth. She looks up, charm flipping like a switch. “Oh! Well, hi there—not lost all the way out here, are you?” “No ma’am,” I say with a tip of my cap, smiling. “I used to be something of a regular.” She stands up, abandoning her paper to slide behind the counter. “Regular?” She waves me over to the nearest stool, and I oblige. I’m no spring chicken, but she’s up in her years, maybe sixty. Still, she wears her age well. Laugh-lines and portly figure tell the story of a life well-lived. “See, I never forget a face, and definitely not the lookers,” she says, hospitable, and I chuckle. She pours a coffee. “What’s your name?” “Damien,” I tell her, reading ‘Tess’ on her name tag as I reach for a laminated menu. “Last time I came through, there was a sharp young woman here. Dark hair. Isabelle, I think it was.” “Oh!” Tess exclaims, delightedly knowing. “One of Bella’s then. Well, she’s been gone for years now! Worked her rear end off and got herself into Arizona State.” “College!” “Mhm.” “That’s damn good to hear. Young lady’s got a bright future.” “Mmmhm. Said she was going to study nursing.” “Really!” “Suits a sweetheart like her, doesn’t it? Real angel of a girl… but oh look at me, here’s a coffee to get you started,” she says, setting me right with a mug before straightening with a huff and a smile, hands on her hips. “Now then, what can I getcha?”