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Six Days Before Christmas
He’s right. The diner is crowded, the parking lot nearly full, with big rigs parked every which way. In the booths, at the counter, men slouch over their phones, or tear into big platters of meatloaf. It’s strangely quiet beneath the clanking of silverware, a low conversation wafting from the kitchen, “Silent Night” playing over the speakers.
Somehow, I lost him on the way over here. Now I look around, but it seems like I’m here first and for a moment I consider bailing. I’m tired. This was a bad idea.
As I turn around to leave, he’s coming through the door bringing cold air with him. There’s a little notch in my chest, a quick inhale.
He’s. So. Hot.
I wouldn’t say he’s buff exactly, not like Billy who spends most of his time in the gym. There’s a virility, though. The light of mischief in his dark eyes. Did I mention that I like his smile? It’s sweet. In on the joke of it all.
“Going somewhere?” he asks. He lifts a playful eyebrow. “Aw, you were going to bail, weren’t you?”
I look at the door. “I was thinking about it.”
“Why? Just because I was stalking you in the parking lot?”
“Well, there’s that.”
“Not my best decision. Sorry. I just didn’t know how else to reach you.”
He sweeps his arm toward an empty booth, and I hesitate, just a second, before walking past the other tables and sliding onto the red vinyl.
“You’re not from around here,” he says, looking at me from over his big, laminated menu.
“No, just passing through. I was going to school. But things didn’t work out. I’m heading home tomorrow.”
“Where’s home?”
“A town called The Hollows. A couple hours north.”
“And in the meantime, you’re dancing at Billy’s.”
I shrug. “The money’s pretty good. It’s not forever.”
He nods. No judgment.
When the waitress arrives, she’s wearing a glittery Santa hat and a bright red sweater adorned with sparkling reindeer. Her straw hair is up in a messy twist.
“What can I get for you, honey?” she asks me.
“Burger, fries, and a shake.”
“Breakfast of champions.” I look at the clock, it’s almost one. “Wish I could eat like that and look like you.”
I offer her the usual self-deprecating shrug I’ve perfected. “Wish I could take credit for my genes.”
Women always hate on me for being naturally small with a jackrabbit metabolism. I get it. Most work and deny themselves for what is genetically easy for me. Still, being petite has its disadvantages in a world controlled by men. Nobody ever talks about that. Why they like you to take up as little space as possible.
When she leaves, I feel him looking at me.
“You don’t seem like the type.”
“The type?”
“To be up there on stage, dancing.”
“Is there a type?”
