Night Shifts Black(3)

"I almost had pancakes last time."

"Almost. Just so you know, I didn't stay for the toast either. I'm surprised they let us back in."

I smile. "We paid for our wasted food. Did we leave a decent tip?"

"Since you emptied your wallet on the table, I think we covered it."

"How do you know I emptied my wallet?" I ask.

"I watched you do it. You almost threw in a couple receipts, too, until you stuffed those back in."

"Yeah, but … " I don't finish. He's observant, like me. I wonder how many other things he's noticed about me. That I'm left-handed? That my hair is darker than what seems natural for my skin tone? That my eyes are too big for my face, but really all my features are, so maybe they work together anyway. I realize there are a lot of things people could observe about me, and consider how one-sided my approach has been to forming my world.

"I was in a hurry," I explain.

"Right, because you were late for work."

"I was."

"Yeah?"

I swallow. "Yeah." I look at my phone and wince. If I had been late that day, then I'm really running behind today. "I have staggered hours?"

He grins and nods. "Ok."

I return his smile and clear my throat. "Fine. You caught me. I actually make my own hours."

"I see. Then technically you could have been late, if you'd decided you were."

I like his observation, for many reasons.

"Technically."

"Well, that's helpful then. Now I don't have to be offended that you ditched me."

"Ditched you? Please. I was doing you a favor by leaving, wasn't I?"

His smile fades, but this time he doesn't totally retreat to that dark place that makes me regret approaching his wall. This particular withdrawal is more introspective.

"Maybe."

"So what are your hours, then?"

"I guess I make my own hours as well."

"Self-employed?"

"Are you?"

"Yes," I say.

He nods. He didn't answer my question. He doesn't intend to answer my question. I wonder if it's the question itself, or a deeper flaw. I doubt he will answer any of my questions, so I decide not to ask any more for now.

"I'm a writer," I continue, accepting that if we're going to talk, it will have to be about me.

That seems to interest him, and I know I will have to make this topic seem a lot more glamorous than it is. I don't usually worry about other people's opinions, but now I want to impress him for some reason. 

"A writer, really? What do you write?"

"Everything I can. A lot of it is to pay the bills, but some is to keep me sane."

"I'm more interested in the part that keeps you sane."

I expected as much and lean forward. I'm disappointed when the server prevents my response.

We place our orders, and the server eyes us with subtle suspicion. I don't blame him, given the fact that we walked out on him the last time we were here together. I wonder again if Luke sat here alone the last two days without me. I wonder if he ordered anything. I wonder if he wondered where I was. I doubt it, and the thought makes me sad.

"Poetry mostly."

"Poetry?"

"The part that keeps me sane."

"I see. Interesting."

"What about you?" I kick myself. No questions. I wait for him to shut down, but this time he doesn't.

"No poetry. Not exactly, anyway."

"Novels?"

He smirks. "No. Maybe one day."

"Can you give me a hint? My next guess will be travel brochures."

He smiles. "Song lyrics."

Suddenly, it hits me. I don't know how I missed this. "You're a musician," I guess.

He seems disturbed. "Used to be, but yeah."

All of the sudden I want to look at the chair, but this time I'm able to stop myself. There's no way I'm messing this up.

"Used to be?"

"Used to be."

"Is music something that ever really goes away?"

He visibly shrinks.

Stupid! I'm furious with myself.

"Yes. I wouldn't have thought so, but yes, it can."

We're silent, both letting that thought settle around us, deep into the cracks of our tenuous alliance. Me wondering what it would take to break a musician of his music. Him wondering … I have no idea.

At least I understand his hair now. And his clothes. And the fact that he doesn't really fit in here. He never wore suits like I'd originally thought, but he also doesn't wear jeans like the rest of us. I know my head shouldn't go where it does, but the thought blasts through before I can stop it. I wonder if he's a musician I would know. "Musician" could mean anything, but there's something about him that makes me think he's in a tier I'd recognize. I think back to that strange glimmer of recognition when I first saw him.

But I don't ask, for once managing to hold my destructive question inside.

The silence continues, although it's not awkward this time. I like that we don't have to talk. I like that simply watching his eyes work the room is enough to replace any need for conversation. I find it fascinating that he's ok with my presence, but doesn't really need me here. Part of me thinks I could be anyone, and he'd be sitting in the same position, tattooed arm resting on the table, fingers absently exploring the napkin. Fingers that used to explore a piano, or guitar, or flute. I want to know which one and think maybe that's a safe question.

"What instrument did you play?" I ask, breaking the silence.

It was safe enough, and he comes back to me.

"Guitar mostly, but we all played everything."

"In a band?"

He nods. I sense that I shouldn't go any further.

"Not an American band, though," I tease.

He smiles again. "Actually, yes. Don't let the accent fool you."




       
         
       
        
"So it's just a fake one?"

My joke startles him, but he likes it. "My accent? No, it's real. It didn't hurt my image as a frontman either."

Another clue. "I'd imagine not. I have yet to meet a girl who is anti-cute-musicians-with-accents."

"No? I have," he returns with a grin.

"Really?" I ask, skeptical. "I'm going to go out on a limb and guess they were anti-something else."

This time the grin spreads into his eyes, and I actually catch my breath for a second.

"You're probably right about that."

It's then that I notice it. The ring. My heart stops.

I don't know how I missed that as well, and it makes no sense that I'm disappointed. It's not like this is a date, or any hope of a date. This isn't even about that. Maybe that's the problem. This is more than that, and the fact that he shares these moments with someone else the other 23 hours of his day hits me harder than it should.

But I don't ask. I don't say anything. I actually pretend I don't see the dark band on his left hand, even though I'm captivated by the way it encircles his finger, a finger perfectly refined by years of creating art. The ring is a work of art in itself, nothing like I've ever seen before. It suits him. A musician's ring. A ring a rock star would wear after marrying the exotic lingerie model most men would kill for.

I say nothing, afraid if I do he'll think I'm suggesting something I'm not. I'm afraid he'll be guilty and he hasn't done anything wrong.

Our breakfast arrives, and I can almost sense our server's relief that we're still here to receive it this time. He hovers a little longer than necessary, reciting a list of possible additions to our meal no one over the age of seven should need to review. We assure him we're fine, and he finally backs away, still watching as if expecting us to disappear before he can return with the check.

"His life will never be the same," I whisper when he finally accepts that his job of delivering our food is done.

"I fear you're right," Luke responds. "Should we apologize for last time?"

"I don't know. That might freak him out even more."

"We don't want that. We'll just have to regain his trust over time."

My knife stops cutting. I know I shouldn't, but I look up anyway.

He clears his throat. "I'm sorry. That was forward."

Forward? That was amazing.

"I have nothing better to do in the mornings if you don't," I reply as casually as possible.

I hate that I suddenly think about the chair. He does, too, and glances over. We both do. We stare at it. We stare at it until he finally shakes his head and closes his eyes. His knife hovers over his plate. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, doesn't explain. He just remembers why he's really here and it's not to have breakfast with me. He's betrayed himself. His chair. 

"It's ok," I say quietly. "Luke, it's ok."

He opens his eyes and this time they're clouded. There are tears there, threatening. He's fighting them so hard his knuckles are white on his utensils. I notice that. I notice everything about him at that moment. I'm also powerless to do anything but watch and it kills me.

He laughs, but there's no humor now. He swats at his eyes and I can't tell if he's angry or simply embarrassed. It might be neither. I have a feeling it's too complicated to classify. I don't know where to begin, he's given me nothing to work with, but the one thing I can do is just be. I'm good at that.

I'm quiet. I wait. I put down my fork, mirroring his action. He stares at his, but that I don't do. I can't look away from his face. From the pain and sadness and fear. It's horrifying and beautiful at the same time. His instinct is telling him to run. I watch his eyes trace the path from the chair to the door. His leg has shifted to clear the base of the table. He's poised for flight, but not in a weak way. He's not going to run for the exit. He has enough control, enough strength to make a graceful escape. He will form an excuse, maybe coupled with an apology, offer one of his priceless smiles. Then with a calm stride, he'll be gone. Dignity intact. Strength unquestioned. Another confusing shift for our server.