Page 4 of Melancholia

The older woman with perpetual lines around her mouth from pursing her lips around a cigarette eight times a day snorts. Her mouth crooks up into a dry grin, and she lays a menu down in front of me with a little slap to the laminated surface.

“Coffee? Cherry Coke?” The fact she knows my drinks of choice makes me wonder if I come in here too much.

But with this being the only diner in this town, the next town, and the town on the other side of that…I don’t really have a choice if I want to eat late. It isn’t like daytime, where I have the choice of Honey Clove, the coffee shop, or the tea company in the next town over that makes the best sandwiches known to man.

God, I could really go for an egg salad sandwich right now.

“Uh, yeah. Let’s go with coffee and a water? Umm…” I scan the menu, trying to land on something that sounds good, but failing. I’m really not hungry.

Just restless.

I should go home.

“Just a plate of hash browns with cheese?” There’s nothing in life that can’t be improved by potatoes, and I hope tonight’s restlessness is one of those things. Betty nods and takes the menu from me, though she doesn’t leave right away as she scribbles on her notepad.

“Cecil left on his trip by now, I’m assuming?” she comments instead after shoving the notepad in her shirt pocket. “How long’s he gonna be gone?” Even though we don’t live anywhere near the southern part of the United States, somehow she still has a drawl of epic proportions that warps her words.

“Uh, yeah. He left a while ago, and he’ll be gone for a week. Maybe eight days, he said, depending on what they do after the wedding.” It’s not like it’s a secret. Ever since he got the invitation, Cecil carried it around town for the sole purpose of brandishing it under the nose of anyone he could corner.

Betty was one of his first, and least enthused, victims.

“Ain’t it scary being in Kindred Pines all by yourself?” She’s not even trying to look busy anymore; she’s just standing there like she doesn’t need to put my order in. Luckily for both of us, I’m really not in a hurry. But I don’t know her well enough for this conversation to be anything other than politely awkward. “You’re what? Twenty-four?”

“Twenty-six,” I correct automatically.

“Don’t you think you’re too young for all that woo-woo shit?” She waves a hand at me, speaking as if I’m playing with the devil every night, instead of just embalming bodies and getting them ready for a funeral or cremation.

“Too young for what?” I give her a confused glance, tearing my gaze away from the napkin I’m tearing into little pieces. “Death? Embalming bodies? It’s just another job.” I try to play it off like I believe my own words, hating that I’m fidgeting and giving off bad vibes from this impromptu lecture.

Thankfully, Betty doesn’t really notice. She just shrugs and shakes her head, mumbling about Kindred Pines being bad for the psyche of a twenty-something year old woman. But I know better than to argue, even if her intentions are grating.

I can make my own decisions, I want to tell her firmly. None of you here know me well enough to know what’s good for me or not.

But I just smile politely and decide on a few pieces of toast in addition to my hash browns. That won’t hurt my endeavors to sleep and get my guests to go away. And it gives me an excuse to sit here for a little while, just existing.

Thankfully, when Betty brings me my cream-laden coffee and water, she doesn’t stick around with more of a lecture. She just smiles at me in an almost comforting way, though the look doesn’t seem natural on her pinched, leathery face. I thank her quickly, relieved and able to relax once she walks away, instead of being subjected to more of her opinions.

And frankly, thank fuck. Because I’m too tired tonight to be convincing enough for her to believe I appreciate whatever she has to say about my career.

When the chime on the door clangs, I look up to see an older woman and a teenage girl who look alike enough to be mother and daughter. For some unknown reason, they sit only two booths away from where I am, as if there isn’t a whole restaurant to pick from. Or worse, as if they don’t know late-night diner etiquette.

Doesn’t everyone know to leave at least four tables between you and other customers? After midnight, people are mostly here to indulge in an existential crisis or a midnight breakdown. Not to sit and chat while having to be aware of the people near them.

I could move, I suppose. I also have a whole ass restaurant that I could pick another seat in. If I wanted, I could sweep past the chattering mother and daughter with my drinks in hand, announcing to Betty that I'm going somewhere else, and just go.

It feels very dramatic in my head, and I doubt the reality would live up to the expectation. So I just lean against the cushioned backrest, head tilted as my eyes shutter closed.

Maybe I should’ve just gone home, I think to myself as the news plays on the television behind the bar counter. Or I could’ve gotten something to go. If I did that, I would’ve avoided Betty’s nosiness and whatever fresh hell these two are, now that their voices are rising in excitement over their shared gossip.

“No, I swear, I’m not⁠—”

“She told me it was one hundred percent settled. Her dad said he was paying.”

“Frank won’t pay!” the mom snorts. “What the hell is she thinking? She’s going to have to pay every bridesmaid back!”

“The others want to get a lawyer. They said⁠—”

Betty interrupts them with all the grace of a tumbleweed, cutting off their talk that’s about as interesting as the dusty ceiling fan.