I toss half a cigarette into the alley and look up to see a cop standing half a block up. He doesn’t seem to have taken notice so I duck into the diner and find our booth. Heather’s consumed in writing. I’m sure it’ll be great, but she’ll say it’s no good.
I fiddle with the salt and pepper shaker. It’s the best I can do. I imagine I can entertain myself that way and not interfere. It doesn’t work. She sees right through it and forces paper and a pen down in front of me. I wonder if she can somehow sense my hesitation to write and is pushing me, trying to help. At least I have something to occupy me, and that’s nice.
I realize we don’t have menus and start wondering if I should have grabbed one on the way in or if the waitress is just slow. Or maybe it’s just busy right now and doing the best she can.
Just then a fire truck roars by out in the cold night. For a second I imagine my cigarette having started a fire in the alley. Silly thought. More likely the cop called his buddies at the fire department and staged the whole drive-by to freak me out. It’s worked.
“What can I get you to drink?” the waitress asks sliding the cold plastic menus onto the faded Formica tabletop.

Want to comment on this Creative Non-Fiction? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Creative Non-Fiction and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...