"I just got here."
"Hi, Mommy." Francesca's smile turned down, traveled around, and turned
up independently at each corner.
"Hi, Sweetheart. Turn around, now."
One of the girls was looking tentatively at Oliver, holding the top of
the booth with both hands. He waved at her, raised his eyebrows, and
bent to his eggs. Toast. Nothing like toast. He wiped up the remaining
yolk. Where's the husband? Probably one of those jerks in a Land Rover.
A bad golfer. Cheats. Christ. Oliver drank the rest of his coffee and
prepared to leave. As he slid sideways across the green plastic seat,
he again caught the woman's eyes. They were calm and questioning, brown
with deepening centers the color of the inner heart of black walnut. He
stood and nodded in the Japanese manner. No one would have noticed,
unless perhaps for her friend.
He buttoned his coat before pushing open the outer door of the diner.
The air was damp, tinged with car exhaust and diesel. The first flakes
of a northeaster coasted innocently to the ground. Francesca--what a
smile! She reminded him of the young Sinatra in _From Here To
Eternity_, awkward and graceful at the same time. The friend was
heavier and looked unmarried, a career teacher, maybe.
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