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Closing the last half a block and stopping at the restaurant door, I hold the glass open for Mia and wait for her to precede me in.
This place is usually a ‘wait to be seated’ kind of establishment, but it’s empty right now except for an older couple in the back corner, and a single man sitting at a booth near the television hung on the wall. I want to see the TV, too, so I keep Mia’s hand in mine and wave to the hostess as we pass.
“Can we sit here, Moo?” I stop us in front of a booth two down from the guy. He keeps his head down, his shoulders hunched to compete with the cold. “I want to see the news.”
“The news is boring,” she mumbles. But she climbs in one side of the booth and flops to her butt with a satisfied grin. “I can’t wait for my eggs. Do you fink they’ll let me put ketchup on them?”
“I mean, sure. If you want ketchup.” I pick up the plastic menu on the table and take a peek at the breakfast offerings. “Do you want a milkshake or something to go with your eggs?”
Mia shrugs.
“Hot chocolate?”
She shrugs again.
“Juice, maybe?”
Instantly, her eyes snap up to mine, and her lips curl. “Yes please!”
Shaking my head, I look back down at the menu and try for the millionth time to understand this little girl.
I don’t get children. I don’t get their weird moods and the swings that come with them. I was an only child in a latchkey home, so my experience with toddlers is… Mia.
She’s cute, and everyone who knows her knows she’s an easy kid to hang out with. But still, she confounds me more often than not.
“Hi there.” The server stops by our table without a single sound of her feet on the floor, so I jump in place and stop on her blinding smile. “Can I start you with coffee?”
“Yes please.” I gesture toward Mia. “Orange juice for her.”
“Can I get ketchup with my eggs?” Mia takes control of our conversation and bats her lashes when the server’s attention comes to her. “Is it okay if I have ketchup?”
“Sure.” She makes a show of writing that on a pad of paper. “And you’d like eggs with that ketchup?”
“Yes please.” Mia runs her tongue around her lips and smirks. “Scrambie, please. And can I change my juice to apple, please? I like apple better than orange. But if I can’t,” an air of disappointment weaves into her words, as though she’s already been told no, “that’s okay. Orange is nice too.”
“I can change it.” The server writes that down, then looks to me. “Apple is okay?”
“Yeah.” I wave that off when I realize she’s checking with the grown-up. “I’m cool with whatever juice she wants. Can I get eggs on toast? A little bacon on the side, but not a bunch.” I look at Mia and wrinkle my nose. “No ketchup for me.”
“Sure,” the server says. “Is there anyth—”
“Hey, Minka?” Mia glances up at the television, like she’s only ten percent involved in this discussion. “When do you need your next needle?”
My heart gallops, especially when the stranger a couple booths over looks our way. I don’t advertise my hemophilia, but this kid just goes out and announces it to the world.
“Uh, tonight, Moo. But listen, I don’t like it when—”
“Does it hurt when you put a needle in your arm like that?” She drags the sleeve of her coat up and touches the inside of her elbow. “It looks like it hurts.”
“No, I—”
“I’ll get your order into the kitchen.” Embarrassed, the server backs away, only to spin to the stranger and make her way closer. “Is there anything else I can get you, sir?”
“Coffee refill.” His voice is deep. Dark. “Thanks.”
Frowning—athim, his square-cut jaw and dark eyes, at the server and her new knowledge about my private life, and at Mia and her inability to understand what is acceptable to tell others—I twine my fingers together and place them on the table.
The clock on the TV reads five-fifty-eight, and outside, the darkness makes way for a little light.
