Chapter 8: 8. A Diner

Clattering tools are the only source of sound in the shop. The fan and power steering belts of the Camaro's engine litter the ground. Sweat drips into one of Elia's eyes, stinging it into a squint. She tightens her hands around her socket wrench and gives it a few twists.

The wrench's head sits over the final, rust-stuck bolt of the timing belt's case. Elia throws her entire body into it like a sumo wrestler eager to push her foe out of the ring. It doesn't budge; the strain sends metallic groans reverberating through her head and forces the hair on the back of her neck to spring up. Elia pushes again. Nothing. Fire rages inside her chest begging to be let out. She rips the wrench off the bolt and throws it at her cabinet. "Agh!"

Silence returns to the shop, tools sitting motionless as a fog of awkward empathy — laced with cold, prickling fear — falls over the other mechanics. At least, that's what Elia imagines. That's what she's feeling. She needs to get herself back under control.

Crack.

Bamboo appears on the tool cabinet and fixes an unblinking glare at Elia; her tail swishes back and forth, brushing across the waiting tools and generating a metallic whistle. Elia glares back.

Crack. Bamboo's furry sides snake between Elia's legs and she stretches up, using both paws to claw at Elia's pants. The fire of anger dims back to threatening embers and Elia picks Bamboo up from under the cat's outstretched limbs. Grey hair flattens close to Bamboo's body and she stretches into an arc as Elia lifts her higher.

Breath leaves Elia's chest along with whatever else was fueling her anger; worn-out charcoal weighs down the pit in its absence, bringing a tired haze to her mind. She raises Bamboo to her shoulder where the cat scrambles up and lays across her shoulders. "Fine. I guess I'll take lunch early."

A plain neon "Diner" sign looms over the all glass door, casting sickly-green light over the walkway and nearly empty parking lot. Cursive frosty lettering spelling out "Sickbay" swoops around the glass. Scents of maple syrup, fried dough, and eggs cling to the air, thickening it to a heavy syrup. Knots of exhaustion tug into place all over Elia's mind. Maybe this was a mistake.

An electronic chime catches the attention of a slim-framed waiter with an unkempt undercut wiping down the counter; his towel comes to a stop and he looks up. A smile spreads across his face. "Elia! Great to see you. Bit early, huh?"

Those knots tighten and strain, tiredness radiates out through the rest of Elia's head demanding mindless rest. She shifts her gaze to the closest empty booth and slides in. Can't handle this right now.

Bamboo tiptoes down Elia's arm and onto the table. She juts her chest out over the edge closest to the aisle and tracks something with her head.

The knots refuse to settle, so Elia stares at a tree out the window; its branches dance around naked in the wind like a skeleton's hand manipulating an ensemble of invisible puppets. She stares straight ahead. Probably best not to think about skeletons.

Footsteps echo behind the booth, then Bamboo teeters back and raises herself up to two feet to smell a pitcher on the waiter's tray. He slides a bowl to the window and pours milk into it from the pitcher. "There you go, Bamboo."

The cat rushes over and more so flicks the milk onto the table with her tongue than actually drinking it. Knots threaten to pop, but Elia looks into the waiter's eyes for a moment and manages to keep a steady tone. "Thanks, Mitchel."

"Anything for my favorite cat! Getting the usual?"

"Yeah."

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Mitchel places a glass of water in front of Elia and tucks the empty tray under his arm. "Alright! I'll put that order in."

The wait gives Elia's mind a chance to recover. She watches several groups of people walk by bundled up in their monotone puffer jackets, arm-in-arm with their loved ones. Just living. Free. Sweat slicks the back of her neck and a pocket mirror etched with flowers pops into her mind. She shakes her head to get it out. She doesn't need it, she's fine.

Mitchel drops a plate of pancakes drowning in syrup in front of Elia. An icicle prods her heart, she shakes the thoughts out of her head and picks up her utensils. Mitchel drops another plate across from her, some kind of greasy, meat-laden sandwich this time. He lowers into the booth's other seat. "Mind if I join you?"

Heat simmers across Elia's face. She cuts out a triangle of multi-layer pancake and sponges up syrup from the plate. He's going to do what he wants anyway.

Mitchel takes a bite of the sandwich and speaks through his full mouth. "Strange you came so soon, thirty minutes earlier and I'd have missed you. What caused the change?" He forces a laugh. "Trying to avoid your favorite waiter?"

Knots tighten, cutting off Elia's patience and flashing that pocket mirror back into her mind. She gulps down her full mouth of pancakes and sips some water to help force it down. "I'd rather just eat."

"Oh, sorry about that. Mind if I just talk then? I won't ask any more questions."

"Fine."

He takes another bite. "So, my fiancé just moved in with me. It's different than I thought it'd be. We always got along back in college, but we never officially signed a lease together or anything. Not that we aren't getting along now. It's just... weird? Talking administration with her feels odd."

The words roll off Elia's mind, but they're there; floating around her subconscious. She cuts into more pancake. Distracts her from... other thoughts, at least.

Mitchel dabs at his grease-stained butcher block of a chin. "I suppose we're talking a ton more because of living together, but now our conversations are fifty percent what we usually talk about and fifty percent figuring out bills and what day we're supposed to put out the trash. Domestic stuff, you know? "

He sets the sandwich down and waves away his last train of thought with his hands. "But anyways, kids are coming up more often now that the wedding is right around the corner. We're thinking of trying a few weeks after."

Knots strain, then whatever they're made of snaps. Chaotic vibrations of emotion fly through Elia's thoughts: anger, loneliness, and whatever else. She spills money onto the table. "Don't. Worst mistake you'll ever make."

Mitchel's eyebrows tighten together and some kind of emotion fills his eyes. "What's wrong —"

Heat boils over and Elia barges out the doors. She doesn't need pity from the people she's hurting, she needs to be home. Closer to the mirror. Now.

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