Page 46 of Queen of Nothing

No crying.

Thank the gods.

Moments like these remind me of an eclipse. With all the right but rare conditions coming together, we pile out of the car with just our bags and find a cosy spot in the diner.

We have lunch.

Sal coos happily in his car seat, playing with a straw that’s apparently more interesting than I realised.

“Caesar salad,” I mumble my order, feeling the sluggishness of the drive wearing me down. “Dressing on the side, and three espressos.”

I don’t bother asking if they have almond milk. These places never do.

Serena rubs the dark circle under her eye. “Soup of the day.”

The two safest orders on the menu.

It’s the same at every diner we stop at.

It’s not so much food safety that restricts us—it’s the taste. The taste of the charred, flavourless steak I had almost a month ago; the bland mushy risotto; the over-salted fries; and the burgers that only taste like whatever sauce drenches it, and cheap cheeses that are so much like plastic that I am suspicious of it.

“This is nice,” Serena says, after the waitress puts our drinks down on the sticky table.

I look around the dated diner.

There’s a piece of cardboard stuck under a table leg. Crumpled napkins and crumbs strewn over the next table. Fingerprints on the glass door. Cake in the glass case beside the register, and I’m pretty sure that cake has been in there for days, if not longer.

“I wouldn’t say that,” I scoff, then sip my coffee.

My lashes shut on the horror of it.

Burnt, cheap coffee.

Probably came from one of those brew pots, rather than a true machine and a nice blend.

Still, I throw it back, like it’s a shot of cheap tequila and I’m lost in a maze.

‘Thoughts of home will be your enemy.’

Serena rolls her eyes.

“The town,” she says, firm, moody, always moody. “It’s nice. Isolated. Quiet. What’s the population again?”

That mum brain has affected her.

I tug out a piece of paper from my jean pocket, then unfold it. “Two hundred and four as of five years ago.”

Serena pauses as the waitress sets down the bowls and the breadbasket. Then, when she’s gone, “It’s impossible for them to update the numbers? Five years is a long time.”

I shrug. “Maybe it hasn’t changed since the last time they counted everyone.”

I don’t know how population counts happen, but I get the funny image of all the towners lined up in the street, being ticked off one after the other on a clipboard, maybe by the mayor.

“Let me see the listing again.”

I hand over the second folded print-out.

Then, as Serena skims it, I start on my salad. And I rush it, in strategic order. Parmesan, then croutons, then tomatoes.