3. False Colored Eyes
877 Words
3
FALSE COLORED EYES
He scans the menu, just to make sure.
The waitress, green notepad in hand, skulks over.
“I’ll have #37.” He points to the item, even though she’s not looking.
She nods, scribbles in her pad, steps over to the chrome counter.
The cook is bending over a skillet. He looks up at Horvath. It’s still early, but his apron is as dirty as a butcher’s at the end of a hard day’s slaughter.
The waitress shouts, slapping the flimsy paper onto the silver carousel.
There’s nothing to do while he waits for the coffee, not even an abandoned newspaper to read.
Horvath is looking for a distraction when she walks in. The first thing he’s aware of is the stabbing of dagger heels on the tiled floor.
She sits at the counter, four stools down.
He moves his eyes without turning his head. Midnight blue skirt, just above the knee. It wraps tightly around her waist. Like coarse hands circling your throat, he thinks. Yellow blouse, primly buttoned to the neck. But there’s nothing prim about her eyes, which tell you she knows all the four-letter words even if she’s not going to say them out loud.
Pale green eyes with a band of gray around the outside. Red lips, like every other space on a roulette wheel. Dark brown hair tied up on top, with a few loose strands teasing the back of her neck. Fingernails painted that same casino red.
Seems familiar. Do I know her?
He flips through a Rolodex of women’s faces, but comes up empty. The faces are all starting to look the same.
Not this one, though. I’d remember her. She stands out like a clown at a state funeral. A real heartbreaker. Knows I’m looking at her even though she can’t see me. I can read it in her shoulders, her crossed legs, in the slim fingers touching that brooch pinned to her blouse.
The coffee arrives, eventually. Like the cavalry galloping in after all the foot soldiers have already been killed.
Horvath tries to remember if he’s ever been heartbroken. Don’t think so. My arms have been fractured. Couple ribs. Collarbone and nose, but no heart problems. I don’t stick around long enough for that. He dreams a dream that he’d be too embarrassed to confess, even to himself.
When the food comes, he digs in as if he hasn’t eaten for weeks.
Before she says anything, he feels her leaning over, senses the change in her breathing.
“Excuse me.”
He turns.
“Can you pass the salt?”
“Sure. Here you go.” He slides it down the slick counter.
He can feel the cook watching. His eyes are all over them, like the wet rag he uses to mop up spills.
She salts her eggs, then holds up the shaker with a wave. “Want it back?”
“Keep it. I’m good.”
She gives him the once-over, twice. “Lana.”
“Hi, Lana.”
“No, Lana, like the actress.”
“Oh right, her.”
“You a movie buff?”
“Not really.”
“What are you into, then?”
“Books.”
“You like to read?”
“Yeah.” He forks bacon into his mouth, on a mattress of runny eggs. Washes it down with black coffee. Bitter, but it gets the job done.
“What do you like to read, comic books?”
He laughs, turns his head.
Her smile is so thin it almost doesn’t exist. Horvath thinks of teachers, politicians, and men of god. Always speaking, but when you try to grab hold of their words, there’s nothing there. It all crumbles to dust in your hands.
“No, real books. Literature.”
“Oh, well. La-di-da. Didn’t know I was dealing with such a scholar.”
He laughs, for real this time. “I also like mystery, crime, westerns…”
“The whole kit and caboodle, huh? Well, I’ll leave you to it.” She pauses. “Sorry to bother you, professor.”
“It’s no bother.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Lana gives him a bigger smile, like you might hand a couple quarters to a bum. “What’d you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.”
“I know.”
He moves one seat down, tells her his name.
“It suits you, I guess.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Her eyebrows leap. “If you insist.”
Lana was a real looker. No one could argue with that. But there’s something in her eyes. Horvath can see it, clear as day, even though she tries to hide it. She might be talking to me, but she’s thinking about something else. Or someone else.
“Never seen you in here before,” she says.
“New in town.”
She nods, sips her tea.
He mops up the remainders of breakfast with the last wedge of toast, which isn’t so crispy anymore. The silver Greyhound bus pulls into his memory. He ate peanuts, read, and stared out the window through six identical states. Ripped seat cushions and squalid train station bathrooms. Payphones dressed in graffiti, with a Yellow Pages that pulled a runner and a silver cord with no receiver at the end. He can still hear the wiry man behind him, rocking in his seat and muttering to himself all the way from Bucks County, PA to Beckley, West Virginia.
“So, you a regular here?” Horvath swallows the dregs of his coffee.
“Yeah, more or less. I come in sometimes.”
“Well—” He pays the bill, with 25¢ extra for the waitress. For all the hard work she didn’t do and all the charm she didn’t have. “—Maybe I’ll pop back in one of these days.”
“Lucky me.”
Now it was his turn for a narrow smile, more of a rumor than a cold hard fact.
- Writer
