the seaside diner

Kelli Lage

Speckles of sun-kissed shore bounce through the windows of the longstanding seaside diner.

The golden halos poking through awake a memory of the man she fell in love with on the pier. On a Tuesday at eleven, he strolled into the diner, sauntering as if he held snuck extra lifetimes in the pockets of his leather jacket. Her cherry hair bounced as she stumbled over his smoky violin rattle of a voice. He ordered coffee and scrambled eggs and stayed until closing.

He would catch the sun between his fingertips, telling lores of flowers tossed when lovers died. He saw stems with cut knees and blooms bleeding into the edge of the earth. They raced time until daylight drank them in one swig. At night praise would sink out of her lips when the low moon touched the bare back of the lake. He held her under the witching hour, whistling songs of hummingbirds.

The sound of the kettle whistling jostles her back to present day. Turning her gaze to the mirror, her reflection shakes her. Gray bangs cling to sweat on her forehead. Wrinkles marked the passage of years spent aching for the man who vanished with the dappled seaborne clouds.

She holds the only hand there is, her own, grasping her fingers, transforming into a statue of prayer. Flustered with days from a brighter dawn, waves begin to rise and the taste of burning comets echoes on her tongue. She craves to melt into sand and to live in the saltwater that is probably buried in leather jacket pockets.

Moonlight coats the diner, as the door creaks open, hummingbirds fill the air.