Someone from Home -- Flash Fiction

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"Know what you want?" she asked him.

He hadn't slept well since he got there. Hotel beds never felt right. Hotel cuisine was uninspiring and too expensive. "Home cookin'," he said.

"Depends on where home is," she said. "Ray there, bless his heart, is from Chicago so I guess it's Chicago cookin'."

He rubbed the stubble on his chin and turned the menu over to look at the breakfast offerings.

"Breakfast 'til ten," she said. "You've got three hours. Take your time."

"Not breakfast without grits and biscuits and gravy." He laid the menu down.

"Honey, you are so right." She laughed. "Where're y'all from?"

He laid the menu down and looked at her for the first time. "Tyler, Texas, ma'am. Rose capital of the world. Where're you from? Not Saint Paul with an accent like that."

"Accent? Why ever would you say that?" She looked down the counter to check her other customers. "Back in a jiffy." She grabbed a coffee pot and was gone.

He felt more alone that he'd felt the whole time he was up here. Just Thursday. Meetings all week and it wasn't Friday yet.This world was cold and windy and cloudy. And the snow looked like it would be here until April. He missed his family.

She returned to him taking up their conversation where she'd left off. "Greenville, Mississippi, by way of New Orleans. Ray can fix you potatoes any way you want 'em as long as you want hash browns."

"Okay. Hash browns. Coffee, black. Two eggs, over easy. Bacon. Whole wheat toast. You got Tabasco?"

"Does the Mississippi run east past St. Paul and New Orleans? Of course we got Tabasco." She relayed his order to Ray and poured him coffee.

"Does it run east past St. Paul and New Orleans?"

"It does," she said over her shoulder as she went to the cash register to take care of a customer.

She was taller and thinner than his wife. Probably about the same age, but Brenda was prettier. Both their girls looked just like her. He should be home in time to see Meagan's school Christmas play.

The waitress plunked his breakfast down in front of him and retrieved a bottle of Tabasco from her apron pocket. "Eat hearty, Tex."

"Ted, actually," he corrected her.

"Well, Ted Actually." She winked at him. "Enjoy your breakfast." And she was off again.

He hadn't thought about how he looked when he left the hotel. Sweats, a fleece lined hoodie, gloves, a knit cap. He'd gone for a run before breakfast. That's how he found Ray's Diner. He'd not showered or shaved. He felt good working up a sweat in this cold country.

When she smiled, she was pretty. Watching her take somebody else's order, he felt grimy.

She was back refilling his coffee cup.

"desJardin," he said. "Ted desJardin. How'd you end up in Minnesota?" he asked before she could go away again.

Still holding the pot, she put her other fist on her hip. "I'm a refugee," she said.

What could he say to that? She must have seen his confusion.

"Katrina, honey. The storm?"

"Can I have some ketchup?" he asked.

"Me and Gene just kept driving north. Neither of us wanted to get away from the river. We both grew up on it. We had a baby then and we've had two more since then. Kinda made a home for ourselves here. I'm even getting where I like snow."

The food was good. He ate slowly and watched the waitress work. He asked her questions as she passed back and forth. What kind of work did her husband do? Did she cook at home? What was there to do for fun in Minneapolis? But he didn't ask her what time she got off work.

She put his check in front of him and leaned her elbows on the counter.

"Listen hon. I get off at two. How'd you like to go for a late lunch?"

He didn't know how to answer that. He had afternoon meetings scheduled. He was leaving in the morning.

"I'm married," he said quietly.

She smiled and laid her hand over his.

Had he said it so quietly that she hadn't heard? Did he hope she hadn't heard?

"Why, honey, I am, too. But Mama Susie's Creole Cafe is just about five blocks from here and it's the only place I know of that you can get decent red beans and rice north of  Monroe." She patted his hand.

Maybe he could miss the last meeting of the day.

"Meet you there at three-thirty. Gene'll pick me up about five. That'll give us an hour and a half to have a good meal and talk about home."

Yes. It was all he could do to keep from pumping his fist in the air.

"Are you any kin to the desJardins over at Lake Chicot?" she asked.

He laughed out loud. He didn't think so. He didn't know where Lake Chicot was. And it didn't matter. He was going to have a late lunch with someone from home, no strings attached.