Cream and Sugar

         Tim’s hand swept across the diner table, grazing a saltshaker and sending it spinning like a top to the edge, showering the Formica surface with little diamonds.  He grabbed his shaking hand with his other slightly-less shaking hand and pulled it back to his chest.  A shudder ran up his back and he took a deep breath to calm himself.  The sound of his raged breathing in his ears did little to help soothe him.

         “Hey Hon, can I get you somethin’ else?”  The waitress has appeared at his side for the third time in the past five minutes.  Her crusty hair continued to teeter from the gravity-defying mound she’d heaped it on top of her head.  The strategically place number two pencil seemed to be the only object standing between the outdate style and structural collapse.

         “No, just the water.”  Tim nodded his head (one of the last parts of his body he could still keep from shaking) to the full, sweaty glass across the table from him, just out of his reach.

         “How about some pie?” Sugar suggested.  The name on the frilly collar of her apron wasn’t in quotes.  It was either her God-given name, or she’d gone by it for so long, no one could remember she’d ever been called Louise.

         “Yes, pie.  Pie is great.”  Anything to get her away from the table again.

         Sugar’s eyes lit up.  “Now we’re talk’n.  Let me see, what’ve we got this mornin’.  We got apple, cherry, blueberry.  Um, we got –”

         “Apple,” Tim snapped.  He tightened his grip around his quivering hand.  He took a small calming breath.  “Apple sounds divine.”

         Sugar gave him a quizzical look, then dismissed the tone in light of the order.

         “Apple pie, comin’ up.  Do you want whip cream, or –”

         “Surprise me,” Tim said.

         “You got it, hon.” Sugar stepped away from the table, her heals clicking against the linoleum.

         The shaking was getting worse, not better.  It had been twenty-four hours, and the symptoms kept getting worse, not better.  And coming here.  Was this really the best way to beat this, face it head on, spit in its eye?

         Tim stared at a droplet of condensation rolling down the cup across from him.  The clear liquid would still be cold, the condensation proved that.  But it would be tasteless, odorless, and completely unsatisfying.  If it wasn’t brown, aromatic, and steaming, what good was it?  Maybe a small sip would help.  He hadn’t put anything to his lips in twenty-four hours.  He had to try eventually.

         Tim grasped the side of the table with one hand.  The glass and peppershaker rattled as he tried to steady himself.  The saltshaker, half-hanging over the edge of the table, rolled a quarter of an inch and toppled to the floor.  The thick glass dispenser didn’t break, but bounced under the table and out of sight.

         The rattling subsided.  Tim pulled his jacket together more tightly, trying to keep in the little bit of warmth left from his last –

         No, he had to put that out of his mind.  He reached out with his free hand and pulled the cup across the table by the rim with the tips of his fingers.  The cup left a wet trail behind it.  Tim wrapped his hand around the cold, sweaty glass.  The wavy surface of the cup felt like a gun handle under his fingers.  He drew the cup toward his lips, resisting the temptation to put the cup to his temple.

         “Hey, Hon.  Here’s your utensils.”  Sugar had snuck up from behind again, depositing a wrapped set of cutlery onto the table.

         The slippery glass shot out of Tim’s hand, sliding across the table like a shuffleboard puck, dropped over the side, and hit the floor in a spectacular crash of glass and water.  Sugar didn’t flinch.

         “Oh, that’s ok sweetie.  Happens all the time.  You weren’t aimin’ for me, were ya?”  Sugar let out a grating laugh.  “I’ll get that cleaned up right after I get your pie.”  She patted me on the shoulder, and I flinched from the touch.  Physical contact felt like shots of needles through my skin.  At least it had for the last day.

         Tim glanced over his hunched shoulder, to the counter where Sugar was serving up his slice.  Just behind her, a red light flashed on a little machine.  The sound of water passing through it would be unperceivable to anyone else, but Tim’s ears strained to hear it.  He could hear the water running through the machine, could imagine it washing through the filter, through the dark, rich grounds.  In another second, the machine would produce that hot, dark liquid that no cup of sweaty water could replace.

         Tim jerked his head back around, staring down at the diamonds on the table.  He’d made it this far.  He would get his pie, eat his pie, and leave this place.  It would be one more test under his belt.  He could do this.

         The tapping on the linoleum gave Sugar away this time.  He could hear her gum smacking as she approached the booth.

         “Here’s your pie, hon.” A piece of floppy, mushy apple pie appeared on a small plate before Tim.

         “And I felt so bad about your water spillin’, I got you a nice hot, cup o’ joe.  On the house.”

         Sugar reached down and set a mug down next to the pie.  The aroma hit Tim’s nostrils, and his brain felt like it was going to explode.

         “Now, don’t you try to thank me yet,” she said.  “Just you wait til’ you try that coffee.  One sip, and you won’t want to drink anything else.”

         Tim twisted his shaking head up toward Sugar, his teeth rattling in his skull.

         “Sugar, that’s the gospel truth, that is.” 



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