Phillies Diner
by Gavin Broom
She's been staring at her fingernails for fifteen minutes, maybe more. All I know is, she started staring before Joe slid the two 5¢ coffees over the counter to us and they're both stone cold now, completely untouched. Occasionally, she nibbles at a rough edge on her thumbnail, but mostly she just stares. They're nice fingernails and all, painted a red that's somewhere between the color of her dress and her hair. The overhead fluorescent lights shine from them in a convex reflection. Sure, they're nice; but they're not fifteen minute nice.
Aside from me and Nancy, there's just one other guy here, sitting opposite us and completely immersed in his own head. Joe, who's been cleaning up a never-ending pile of mugs and glasses, has tried to spark some conversation with the guy, but he's plain uninterested. Apart from pouring a ton of cream and sugar into his coffee, he's barely moved. When he arrived, Nancy humorlessly remarked that she didn't know I had a twin. I guess he does look a little like me, we're dressed almost identically in single breasted suits and Stetsons, although I consider myself more classically handsome. I keep this thought to myself.
A check of my watch tells me it's just gone two thirty in the morning. It's absolute pitch outside. The windows are like mirrors and while I've sat here more times than I care to remember at all hours of the day and night, I've never realized how exposed and isolated this makes me feel. While the world is at war, it may seem that nothing much is happening in my little corner of it, but in actual fact, it's all falling apart.
"Aren't you going to say something?" Nancy asks, finally satisfied with the state of her nails.
"Is there anything I could say that would change your mind?"
"No, Jimmy. I'm sorry."
"Then there's nothing much to say."
I knew something was up when she arrived at my apartment a half hour ago. She very rarely comes to visit me, never mind in the small hours. Most times, we meet at neutral locations, like the bridge in the park. Her family are none too thrilled for us to be seeing each other, so they'd probably disown her if they thought we were brazenly sleeping together or having late night rendezvous. His family? Well, for the most part, his family have no idea and it's probably best kept that way.
I threw on the clothes I'd been wearing early that day and we came to Phillies because it's less than 300 feet from my place and it's the only all-night diner in the neighborhood.
"It's over," she whispered to me once we'd sat down on the stools at the counter.
I played with a book of Phillies' matches. "Yeah, I figured. So why bring me here to fill me in? Why not tell me at the apartment?"
"Because I'm selfish and I don't want to be alone. Not tonight."
"Two coffees when you get a minute, Joe."
And that was when she started staring at her nails.
We've only been together for a couple of months, I tell myself. It's no big deal. It's not like we're married or anything. Well, not to each other. But if that's the case, if it really isn't a big deal, why do I want to explode? Why can't I look her in the eye? Why does it burn the pit of my stomach?
"You haven't asked why," she says.
I still can't look at her, but I manage to reply, "Well, I guess it's Michael, but does it really matter? You've made your choice. Hey, we had some fun. Neither of us thought it was gonna be for keeps."
She takes a breath to respond, but I turn to look her in the eye and cut across her.
"And your family haven't exactly made this easy for you - for both of us," I say, trying a nonchalant shrug. "They love Michael."
"He's a hero."
And don't I just know it? Would her precious family have so many objections if their beloved in-law had been a mailman or a chiropodist, or if he worked at the brewery down on Spring Street? I doubt it. But just because he has the misfortune to be in the first infantry unit sent over to Europe, he becomes this untouchable God in their eyes. I hate myself for thinking like that.
"Yes," I agree. "He is a hero."
"Jimmy. Michael's dead. He was killed two days ago. I just found out."
I'm cut down, frozen with a stupid look on my face.
She doesn't look at me when she says this. Instead, she stares through the counter, probably to a place where this conversation wasn't happening; where it doesn't need to happen because Michael didn't have to leave in the first place.
"That's why this has to end," she continues. "I can't be unfaithful to a memory, Jimmy. I just can't."
I have a million and one questions to ask, all of them seem completely worthless and I'm not so sure I want to know the answer to any of them. Despite this, something detached from me pushes one of the questions out. "Who else knows?"
"Just you," she confirms, shaking her head, her eyes wide and fixed.
I stand up, tossing a quarter down on the counter for the coffees and tip.
"Where are you going?" she asks, suddenly frantic, tears welling in her eyes. She's trying so hard not to cry.
"I need to clear my head. And I guess I need to tell my mom."
"Jimmy, it's the middle of the night."
I don't say anything, but as I make for the door, I wonder if there's a good time to hear that your son's dead. I'm on the sidewalk when I finally break down.