“What about coffee?” Josie asked.
“I’m not making you any.”
“Hah. I’ll order some after we pig out.” Each booth had an old-fashioned jukebox attached to it. “You have a quarter?” Josie begged.
Laura fished one out of a pocket. Josie slipped it in as Laura wondered how they got away with still just charging a quarter. She remembered long car trips to visit her relatives in Ohio and stopping at the L&K Diners, the jukeboxes identical, a burgundy red she only saw in ancient Italian restaurants and rest stops in the Midwest.
Back then a quarter got two songs. Now, one. Josie punched some buttons, fingers more accustomed to glass phone screens than analog squares, and soon Gloria Gaynor crooned.
Laura groaned.
“First I was IM'ed! I was petrified,” Josie sang, using her rolled silverware as a microphone. Seriously? The song was bad enough. Josie’s tone-deaf performance would be worse.
“Kept thinking there was no way these guys would want my backside...”
These guys?
“Stop it,” she hissed, whacking Josie’s forearm. The fork slid out and shot across the room, hitting a table leg. Madge strode by without missing a beat, picked it up, and threw a clean one on the table in front of Josie, her stride completely fluid.
“And then Thor and Superman, they came to me in the same bed, and now I’m half dead, ooooooh now I am half dead!” Josie wriggled and thrust her neck out as if singing, her voice a cross between an eight-year-old’s earnest choir attempts and something out of Killer Karaoke.
“You have the music ability of William Hung.” And the stage presence.
“I will ménage! I will ménage!” As Josie parodied the familiar chorus, Laura lunged across the table and clamped her hand over Josie’s mouth. That was quite enough.
“No brawling,” Madge chided as she used a bissel to sweep the tattered carpet a few tables away. “Don’t make me call the bouncer.” She hooked her thumb over at the old homeless man sucking on a cup of coffee. He looked up and grinned, two teeth total in his mouth, eyebrows shooting up to a bald pate and creased, greasy hand waving. The girls laughed and Laura settled back down in place.
“You are such an asshole.”
“But you love me.”
“Well, now you’re buying.”
“No way.” Laura reached for the triangle game with pegs. All the writing had worn off long ago, and the wood was a solid block—this was an old stand-by that had probably been original to the place when it opened. The pegs were worn down and the colors faded, but the premise was the same: get down to one peg.
Laura played. Three pegs.
Josie played. Three pegs. “Doo doo doo doo,” she teased, like music from a creepy movie. “The universe it telling you something.” Laura snatched the damn game out of Josie’s hands as Gloria Gaynor went into her second verse.
Just then, Madge appeared with the potato pancakes and a huge, steaming pile of coconut shrimp. Three cruets of aioli and she and Josie dug in before Madge could croak out with “Anything else?”
“Mmmmmmmm,” Josie groaned, her mouth nibbling on the end of a fried shrimp the size of her hand. “Uh, yeah.” Brow furrowed, she caught Laura’s eye. “Did we forget the fried green tomatoes?”
Before Laura could reply, Madge said, “Got it,” striding off.
“We are going to be so full,” Laura said, using the side of her fork to cut a pancake.
“Is that a complaint?” Josie opened her mouth and panted, trying not to burn her tongue.
“Nope. Can’t you wait until it cools down?” She pointed at Josie’s mouth.
“Nope.” The two sat in silence, the only sound now their masticating, jaws working furiously on dissembling the amazing tastes before them. It was a relief for Laura; too many hands, too many mouths on her, too many feelings that didn’t have a home. Eating was easy. Order delicious food. Have it delivered. Open mouth. Enjoy. Repeat ad nauseum.
Food was always there for her. It never changed. Hot fudge was hot fudge. Butter crunch ice cream just was. Coconut shrimp were steadfast and tasty, filling time, her belly, and whatever aching hole was in her that needed to be sated.
Cheesy potato pancakes didn’t send out confusing signals. Cookies didn’t judge her. Peanut Butter Hulk Smash cake would serve her, would be at her disposal, would meet her needs.
With no expectations.
Screw Dylan and Mike. Fuck them.
Fuck them in the eye.
At the thought, she punctuated the air with her fork, imagining poking them with it. Josie looked up from her plate, mouth stuffed now with the cooled-down shrimp.