Fiction Friday Numero Seis

It's Friday, and I anticipate yet another late night posting, as I have a date, as you probably already know.  So, here I am, at the day job, ignoring actual work to bring you another Fiction Friday.  This one will probably reflect my current inner feelings which are surprisingly happy and hopeful.  Maybe my mom did the right thing when she gave me the middle name Hope.  So, here it goes.

Hope

By This Girl

Driving down the highway at 90 miles an hour with tears streaming down your face is never a good idea. Teeth chattering as the high speed created vibrations through the body of my beat up old Nissan, I contemplated driving into oncoming traffic, off the side of the road, or into the rear end of the tractor trailer in front of me. I imagined a Hollywood style fiery inferno engulfing the car, myself, and my problems.  Nothing would ever be right again.  I was running, running from a bad relationship, a crap job I had just been fired from, and a host of personal demons that haunted my days and nights.  I had no direction, no destination, just a full tank of gas and desperation.  I had no idea where I was, or where I was going, and I didn't care.

As the cracked open window allowed the warm air to dry the tears on my mascara smeared face, I looked at the destination sign on my right. My instincts had kicked in, as the next exit would take me home.  I didn't want to go there.  I blew past the exit and, on a whim, continued down the road as the sky and my mood continued to darken.   There had to be something else, somewhere else, a light at the end of this tunnel. So I drove. And drove.  I stopped at a rest area to relieve myself and grab a snack from ancient vending machines, and drove. I passed small towns and big, streets and lanes and just drove.

My eyes started to droop and my stomach started to growl almost simultaneously.   I stopped at a diner in the middle of nowhere with a 24 hour sign lit in the front window. A film buff, I anticipated a smartass waitress named Ethel, popping her gum while she asked me what I would be having.  Lined up on stools at the counter would be rough and tumble truckers who were sweet as pie on the inside and were fiercely protective of the employees and women in general. The food would be surprisingly good, and I would finish off my meal with a slice of Ethel's famous apple pie ala mode and a coffee.  All would be right again, thanks to the wisdom of Ethel and the boys.

My expectations, like always, were not met.  The interior of the diner looked as if it had never known the caress of a cleansing agent or washcloth.  A smoky haze permeated the air, the source of which was a chain smoking Morticia Adaams look alike with a sweat stained waitress uniform and putrid pink lipstick on her sheet white face.  Her hair, long and stringy with patches of gray, was swept into an updo that had probably required 3 bottles of Aquanet to obtain.  I hesitated on the threshold of the building, wondering whether I could slip away before Morticia noticed me. A loud BING-BONG sounded, alerting the entire room of my presence. 

All eyes were on me.  The sole occupants of the counter were rotund flannel clad road jockeys, slurping coffee and making remarks to each other while giving me the once over.  Feeling small and threatened, I sidled into the nearest booth and reached for the menu that was propped behind the sugar caddy on the table, with my back to the room. I heard a rustle and realized that Ms. Adaams was making her way over to my table. The scent of cigarette and Jovan White Musk hit me first. I heard her take a breath to speak. My own breath sucked in, a defense mechanism from years of non-smoking. And she said...

TO BE CONTINUED...