“Honey,” the waitress says, shifting the gum in her mouth. “It’s upside down.”
She takes it from my hands, flips it, and places it back in front of me. Her fingers tap twice against the picture of pancakes. She hums, nodding to herself.
“Everyone’s favorite,” she says, then gestures toward the kitchen. “Earl makes the best pancakes in town.”
“We’ll get those,” Dasha says. “And tea.”
“What kind of tea?” the waitress asks.
“Just any.” Dasha shakes her head, her eyes moving towards me.
The waitress understands. She scribbles the order down quickly, then moves away.
I let the menu rest in my hands, my eyes drifting over the words without taking any of them in.
Dasha leans back and turns slightly, asking the man behind us for today’s newspaper, like this is just another morning.
She licks the tips of her fingers before opening the paper. Then she lifts the reading glasses hanging from her neck and settles them on her nose, scanning each page thoroughly.
I set the menu aside.
“You have to wake up,malyshka,“ she murmurs without looking at me, eyes still moving across the print. “It’s a harsh world, and you have no time to be miserable.”
“I thought I had everything figured out,” I say, watching her. “And now I realize all that everything is nothing at all. Or… not important.”
I blink, pressing my hands together in my lap.
“You need a job.” Dasha lowers the newspaper onto the table and finally looks at me. “Occupy your pretty little head with something else.”
“I don’t know anything else.” My shoulders lift in a small shrug.
She clicks her tongue and slides her glasses down her nose, peering at me over the frames. “Yes. Yes, you do.”
Her gaze drops back to the paper. She pushes it toward me, the edge brushes against the tip of my fingers.
“There are ads here. Read while I go use the restroom.” She stands, smoothing her clothes. “Being old comes with a bladder like a goldfish.”
A quiet chuckle follows her as she walks away.
I look down and spread the paper open. The pages feel thin, and I twist it and look at the back section. The date is stamped across the top.
April 10th, 1993.
Below it, rows of job listings blur together. People searching for secretaries, shop assistants, waitresses. I’m staring at the same words, and lines repeat over and over;experience required,references required.
My eyes start to drift, ready to give up, when something catches at the bottom of the page. In bold letters, it’s written:House sitter wanted for a cliffside mansion in Mendocino, California. Please call the number to schedule an interview.
My fingers pause on the paper.
Maybe this is what I need.
To be alone. To sit with whatever is left inside me and let it settle. To step away from a town that keeps pressing its memories against me.
There are more lines written below, but I ignore them.
I fold the newspaper in half and push myself up from the booth. My eyes move across the diner, searching for a phone I could use. It doesn’t take long to find one, mounted on the far wall near the end of the room.
I step away from the table and walk toward it.
