AllFreeNovel
Share Us
It gives us a view of the entire room. I admire how brightly decorated it is. The white brick walls are full of abstract artwork and broken up by large windows that face the picturesque strip of stores that line the street.
The artwork is all whites, blues, and yellows with splashes of red and purple that manage to look coordinated but somehow eclectic at the same time.
“It’s so private,” I say. Angie nods knowingly.
“You make yourselves comfortable and I’ll get your waters and your basket of bread right out.” She puts a hand on her pregnant belly and rubs it.
“Are you okay?” I ask, pointing with concern at her baby bump.
“Yeah, I’m fine, why?” she asks sharply, peering at me with intense anticipation on her face.
“Uh—” I eyeball and wonder why she’s acting like my answer is important. “Well, nothing … you keep rubbing you're belly. I was just thinking maybe you were having some pregnancy-related difficulty,” I explain cautiously.
She laughs at the joke she still hasn’t bothered to explain to me.
“Oh. Thank goodness. I was only rubbing it ‘cause I wanted to make sure you knew I was pregnant and didn’t think this was a beer gut or something,” she says and then gasps with embarrassment.
“I can’t believe I said that out loud,” she says apologetically. “Pregnancy has completely removed my already very porous filter. It’s my fourth time; you’d think I’d be over this part. But I hate that I can’t see my feet and this ass is as wide as the Houston Ship Channel,” she blurts, a pained expression on her pretty face.
I want to laugh but I don’t think she’s trying to be funny. I try to think of some sort of consolation to offer, but I have a feeling nothing I say would actually make her feel better.
“I’m sorry, you probably think I’m so vain,” she says and shakes her head deprecatingly.
“You are vain. And nobody is thinking anything except how to get you to stop talking so they can get some food,” a gruff but twangy woman’s voice comes from the booth next to ours.
“Oh, Lord, I’m sorry,” Angie smiles apologetically. “For talking and for Henny’s rudeness. Thank you for being nice.” She rolls her eyes at the booth. “Your server will be right over. Glad to have you. Hope you’ll come back.” She makes an exaggerated scowling face at the hidden booth occupant and waddles off toward the front of the restaurant.
“As if anyone could mistake that belly for anything other than another one of your giant babies,” the voice calls after Angie.
“Oh, Henny, be nice and introduce yourself,” Angie calls back without looking over her shoulder.
A gnarled, arthritic hand with perfectly, French-manicured nails comes to rest on the shared top of our booths. Right over the side where Cass would have been sitting.
“You should be thanking me,” the voice comes. I grin when a hand taps the top of our booth.
“Well, are you going to make me shift my ninety-year-old bones out of the chair, or are you going to get up and say hello?” she asks impatiently.
I giggle and slide out of the seat and step to her booth. The woman sitting there looks like she could be a fill-in for Sophia Petrillo on Golden Girls.
“Thank you,” I say cheerily.
“You’re welcome,” she says tersely and then looks up at me with a pair of dark brown eyes that are set deep in a face that’s got so many wrinkles, it’s impossible to tell what she really looks like.
“Yes, I know,” she says like she’s bored. “I look like a bleached prune. You don’t need to stare at me like you’ve never seen an old person,” she says.
“Oh, I’m not staring cause you’re old, I’m just waiting for you to tell me why I should be thanking you,” I say good-humoredly. I come from a town full of crotchety old people whose bark is all lie. And I’ve never lived anywhere else where your elders ‘spank you’ even if you’re not theirs to.
“That girl never stops talking,” Henny says. “She runs a tight ship, though. Once she gets out of the way.” She raises her eyebrows knowingly and draws out that last word. “You’ll enjoy every single meal you have here.”
“I’m Confidence,” I say and extend my hand.
She frowns and eyes me. “You look too young to have hippies for parents,” she muses.
“Yeah. My grandparents’ generation, I think,” I say.
“You think?” She scoffs and gives me a disapproving frown. “You kids don’t know your history. You should know what generation your elders belong to. Not just yours. I bet you’re a millennial. You will be remembered for your selfishness,” she chides. I throw my head back and laugh the first real laugh I’ve managed in a while. She’s awesome.
“Glad you think it’s funny,” she says dryly. “I’m here every day, if you want more.”
