Chapter 33
We sip stale coffee while the speakers play Christmas melodies sung by famous dead crooners, their great-grandkids now cashing in the royalties. Must be nice. I get the Grand Slam. Mom orders an egg-white omelet but switches to a regular when she finds out the egg whites are a two-buck up-charge.
“Can’t believe this world, they charge you to take something away,” Mom says too loudly so the waitress will hear, as if the twenty-year-old with pink streaks and a tongue piercing has anything to do with the Denny’s menu pricing.
“I think you should’ve splurged,” I say. “A Christmas gift to yourself.”
Mom rips the top off another packet of sugar and dumps it into her coffee.
“You’re in a good mood,” she says as she stirs.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess I am.”
“Don’t know why. Such a gloomy day. So drab,” Mom says, looking out the window at the cars in the parking lot, all coated in a sheet of snow.
She’s in a shitty mood because she hasn’t heard from her man yet. And I’m in a good one because I have heard from mine.
Merry Christmas, beautiful, he texted. I wish I could be spending the day with you.
Never has a message been more romantic. Never has a text sounded so sweet. I touched the words. I studied them. He chose each one of these words. He chose them for me. They are the chosen words. They are so interesting. They are poetry.
Our food comes and we eat it quickly. Mom orders a glass of wine.
Then another. Then another. Guess she could have afforded the egg whites.
Midway through our meal, her phone pings and her eleven lines soften, quickly replaced by a twitchy, soul-itching eagerness.
She checks the message and frowns again, chucking the phone in her purse.
“Just spam,” she says.