Sitting at a diner was the last thing he wanted to be doing right now. He could be at home drawing right now, and instead he had to sweat through the hazy heat slowly circulated by the broken uneven fan on the diner's ceiling.
"What do you want?" He spit out, venom flying from his lips and dripping off of his target. She merely grimaced and wiped her hand with a napkin.
"Can't a lady enjoy a drink with an old friend?" Her voice was nearly a purr, deep and satisfying, the way the ocean worked. Tall waves pull you under and keep you there, the tide lulling you farther and farther down until you stop thrashing and embrace the peace. "It's a lovely day outside."
"Yeah, it's June. What did you expect?" He glared a hole into the dusty, fingerprint stained window to his left. A few cars stuttered by the little diner, no one in a rush to get anywhere. A slow day was a horrible day for trouble and yet here he was. "You got me sweatin' like a sinner on the Sabbath, and you ain't gonna tell me why?" He stared at her, the missing thunderstorms that caused this drought found in his eyes.
She merely smiled and flipped the menu open. The smile didn't reach her eyes, or really anywhere other than her lips. It looked more like a painful stretch of her lips than anything. "I hear the french toast is nice."
"You would, wouldn't you?" He asked. He only had questions with no answers to give. No answers to hear either. "You always liked the French."
She hummed mindlessly. "They have a nice culture there."
"Because of the food?"
"Because of the love."
"Come on now, don't be like that. You got plenty here."
She snapped the menu down. "Don't I?" She picked it up again, scanning the
food items listed as if they would hold the answers no one was willing to give her. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Come on, it was one time! You gonna hold me to a fire for one accident?" He threw his hands up in the air. Leaning back in the plastic fake chair was enough to almost pop his worn down back. Not enough to satisfy. He never would be.
The waiter meandered over, the heat too strong to do anything with fervor. She ordered the French Toast, and he ordered an omelet, just to be contrary. As the waiter moved away from their dingy little table, her sharp eyes cut through him.
"You can't give it back." She said.
"I know, but I can do you one better. Look, honest before god, I didn't know it meant that much to you."
"You should have. Ain't that what love is? Knowing what's important?" Her sharp eyes turned soulful for a moment.
"I don't see what a pack of Skittles got to do with love, Dana!" He huffed and slumped back in his chair. "I said I was sorry."
She stared at the ceiling. "Sorry doesn't bring them back."