Hope Returns
by This Girl
(continued from two weeks ago)
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, with a voice raspy from menthol's and screaming orders to the kitchen area, "What'll you have?"
Looking at the food smeared menu that served as a place mat, I pointed a shaky finger to a breakfast combo that looked large enough to feed a family of four. Eggs, hash browns, bacon, toast...the standard diner fare. After a series of follow up questions that I answered with one word sentences, she sauntered away to grab my coffee and small orange juice. Realizing that staring at the wall and identifying various stains was not going to amuse me for the entirety of my meal, I reached into my purse and snagged my dogeared copy of Jane Eyre. Taking out the gas station receipt bookmark, I entered the alternate world of a down on her luck governess and her passionate affair with the lord of the house. Immersed, I barely looked up as Morticia dropped off my drinks, instinctively pouring suspect creamer and sugar into the coffee in the exact measurements required by my palate. Morticia hesitated a moment, inhaled to speak, but seemed to realize that I was not in a talking mood and turned on her heel, squeaking her shoe as she walked away.
Ten minutes later, she was back and I took a break from the goings on of Thornfield Hall to gaze upon a mountain of breakfast food that had been placed before me. As I unwrapped my silverware, Morticia spoke up. "That's one of my favorites, although my copy is a little worse for wear," she said, gesturing to the book that was now lying open on the chipped table. I was surprised by her comment, having made assumptions about her character and intelligence based on her profession and appearance. "Really?" I asked. "What's your favorite part?" Her face softened, revealing a hint of hidden beauty behind the cosmetic facade. " The end. When Jane goes back to Rochester and he's been hurt. It's so romantic. Much better than that 'haunting the moors' nonsense of Wuthering Heights. Well. Enjoy your breakfast."
She walked away as I sat, dumbfounded. I had judged her harshly, given her surroundings and my own perception of societal norms. Given my mental state, I allowed myself a moment of indulgence that road weariness and my own life being so overwhelmingly shitty that I had merely transferred my negative emotions onto this poor woman who had done nothing to me but look differently. I dug into my meal, my book now laying ignored on the table as I ate with a gusto that had come from nowhere. I swore to myself that the next pass the waitress took of the table would find me in a more talkative mood.
As she wandered over with a coffee pot to top off my cup, I finally looked into the face of the woman who was taking care of me. The makeup was harsh, but underneath the eyeshadow were hazel eyes that shone with intelligence and life. Her lips may have been crimson and over drawn, but there was a genuine warmth in her smile that reached two small dimples in her cheeks. I finally looked at her name tag, wanting with all my heart to know the name of the woman that I had given such a harsh nickname. "Hope," I said, glancing up at her face as she poured a fresh cup with an expert hand. "That's my name," she said, "and what I believe in. Jane had it. Rochester had it. And I have it, in abundance."
As she turned to walk away, I reached out and placed my hand gently on her coffee wielding arm. Without thought, tears welled up in my eyes as the words "Thank you" came tumbling from my toast crumb dusted lips. She stopped, turned towards me, and winked. Walking away, she called out to the boys at the counter, teasing a laugh from them with her words. I didn't hear what she said. I only knew that I would be leaving the diner with something that I had not come in with. And that was a big ole helping of Hope.
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, with a voice raspy from menthol's and screaming orders to the kitchen area, "What'll you have?"
Looking at the food smeared menu that served as a place mat, I pointed a shaky finger to a breakfast combo that looked large enough to feed a family of four. Eggs, hash browns, bacon, toast...the standard diner fare. After a series of follow up questions that I answered with one word sentences, she sauntered away to grab my coffee and small orange juice. Realizing that staring at the wall and identifying various stains was not going to amuse me for the entirety of my meal, I reached into my purse and snagged my dogeared copy of Jane Eyre. Taking out the gas station receipt bookmark, I entered the alternate world of a down on her luck governess and her passionate affair with the lord of the house. Immersed, I barely looked up as Morticia dropped off my drinks, instinctively pouring suspect creamer and sugar into the coffee in the exact measurements required by my palate. Morticia hesitated a moment, inhaled to speak, but seemed to realize that I was not in a talking mood and turned on her heel, squeaking her shoe as she walked away.
Ten minutes later, she was back and I took a break from the goings on of Thornfield Hall to gaze upon a mountain of breakfast food that had been placed before me. As I unwrapped my silverware, Morticia spoke up. "That's one of my favorites, although my copy is a little worse for wear," she said, gesturing to the book that was now lying open on the chipped table. I was surprised by her comment, having made assumptions about her character and intelligence based on her profession and appearance. "Really?" I asked. "What's your favorite part?" Her face softened, revealing a hint of hidden beauty behind the cosmetic facade. " The end. When Jane goes back to Rochester and he's been hurt. It's so romantic. Much better than that 'haunting the moors' nonsense of Wuthering Heights. Well. Enjoy your breakfast."
She walked away as I sat, dumbfounded. I had judged her harshly, given her surroundings and my own perception of societal norms. Given my mental state, I allowed myself a moment of indulgence that road weariness and my own life being so overwhelmingly shitty that I had merely transferred my negative emotions onto this poor woman who had done nothing to me but look differently. I dug into my meal, my book now laying ignored on the table as I ate with a gusto that had come from nowhere. I swore to myself that the next pass the waitress took of the table would find me in a more talkative mood.
As she wandered over with a coffee pot to top off my cup, I finally looked into the face of the woman who was taking care of me. The makeup was harsh, but underneath the eyeshadow were hazel eyes that shone with intelligence and life. Her lips may have been crimson and over drawn, but there was a genuine warmth in her smile that reached two small dimples in her cheeks. I finally looked at her name tag, wanting with all my heart to know the name of the woman that I had given such a harsh nickname. "Hope," I said, glancing up at her face as she poured a fresh cup with an expert hand. "That's my name," she said, "and what I believe in. Jane had it. Rochester had it. And I have it, in abundance."
As she turned to walk away, I reached out and placed my hand gently on her coffee wielding arm. Without thought, tears welled up in my eyes as the words "Thank you" came tumbling from my toast crumb dusted lips. She stopped, turned towards me, and winked. Walking away, she called out to the boys at the counter, teasing a laugh from them with her words. I didn't hear what she said. I only knew that I would be leaving the diner with something that I had not come in with. And that was a big ole helping of Hope.
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