Halfway

Just a little something I began as part of a writing exercise we did in our Writers' Group last year.

The dark sign loomed up against the night sky, a black rectangle marked out only as an area where no stars showed. As the green sedan drew closer, the sign slowly gained color and definition, until at last the driver could make it out:

24 hr. Diner

Exit 358

½ Mile

The man in the car smiled. A country diner, he thought. I haven’t been to a country diner in years. He drove on past the sign before abruptly laughing and changing lanes, preparing to exit. I hope they’ll serve breakfast. Slowing nearly to a stop, he checked for oncoming traffic before turning onto the country road. Gravel crunched under the tires, and he began whistling happily when the diner came into sight.

Pulling into the dirt parking lot, he killed the engine and just sat for a minute, enjoying the quiet. You never notice how loud life can be, until you sit and listen to a dark, still night in the country. Then a breeze rustling through tree branches broke his meditation, and he stiffly climbed out of the car and stretched. The rustling trees formed a small forest across the road. On this side, that same breeze passed through swaying fields of alfalfa and wheat. The whole night seemed alive with crickets’ chirps and wordless whispers, secrets being passed back in forth in a language no man still spoke.

Suddenly a dog howled, and the man shivered in the cool breeze. He looked up at the sliver of a moon shining in the sky. You are nothing but a rock floating in space, a pale reflection of the sun. The moon seemed to peer back at him from under the heavy lid of night sky that covered it, challenging him to speak his thoughts aloud.

“Breakfast,” he said instead. “An omelet, and coffee.” Turning towards the diner, he noticed a waitress looking at him curiously through the wide windows that ran across the front of it. He waved and smiled, and she responded in kind, if hesitantly. Shutting and locking his door – wouldn’t that be something, if it got stolen out here in the middle of nowhere, he chuckled to himself – he walked quickly over to the entrance of the diner and pushed the door open. A little bell over his head jingled and the lone waitress in the place stepped forward with a menu and silverware rolled up in a napkin.

“Howdya do, mister? Welcome to Alice’s Country Diner. My name is Clare and I’ll be your waitress tonight. Do you care where I put ya?”

“Right here by the window would be just fine thanks.”

“Alrighty then. Do you need a minute to think now?”

“Are you still serving breakfast?”

“Sure hon, what’ll ya have?”

“An omelet and coffee please. And a cinnamon roll.”

“Coming right up. I’ll get your coffee while Hank’s cooking.”

“Thank you, Clare.” He smiled at her as she turned and walked back to the kitchen, calling his order out to Hank. As she stopped speaking, and more distant sounds continued from the back, he realized there was music playing quietly somewhere in the diner. Standing up and looking around, he spotted a new-looking jukebox sitting in the back corner. As he approached, the words of the song became recognizable.

“You can dream about it every now and then, but you can’t go home again…”

Footsteps sounded behind him and Clare spoke, “I got your coffee and cinnamon roll mister. Do you want icing on it?” Her footsteps approached behind him. “Mister?”

Her turned and looked at her, frowning. “Sorry, I was just thinking. Got caught up in the music I guess. No, no icing, that’s too much sugar for me. Thank you though.”

She looked past him at the jukebox and smiled, “Wynonna Judd. I like that song. It reminds me of when I was a kid.” He nodded and began walking back to his table, and she followed with the coffee pot and cup.

“Oh oh oh – Oh oh oh, It doesn't seem like it was all that long ago...”

“Yes,” he said, almost wistfully. “It is a good song.”

As she poured out his coffee, she looked at him with concern in her face, “So where are you going this late at night? Most folks would've found a motel by now.” Suddenly she looked abashed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry…”

“No, it’s fine. I was on my way home when I saw the sign on the highway, and couldn’t resist.” Clare smiled at that. “It’s been almost 20 years since I left. I figured it was finally time to go back and make what peace I could.” He looked up at her.

“That’s good. Family’s important,” she smiled sympathetically.

“Yes,” he said. “Why don’t you go see how my omelet’s coming? I want to be alone for a minute.”

“Sure thing,” she nodded sympathetically. “You just sit tight and I’ll bring it out in a jiffy.”

“Oh oh oh – Oh oh oh, You can dream about it every now and then, But you can't go home again...”

The man nodded and turned away, looking out the window, at the heavy-lidded eye of the moon. He didn’t even glance at the coffee cup. At least I tried, he protested. I made it halfway. I figure that’s about as far as anyone gets, really. The moon held its peace, but Wynonna kept singing in the background.

“There's a black-top road, a faded yellow centerline, it can take you back to the place, but it can't take you back in time…”

Author's Note

Dialogue is always of paramount concern to me, in that I want it to feel both nature and consistent within the characters. Other than that, go nuts.