It was raining, and all my work on my curls was going to ruin. I nipped into a little diner on the corner of Bathurst to gather my thoughts. Chilled from the cold, I patted my skirt as I swept into the booth. Neatly removing my hat and setting it aside.
“What can I get for ya?” Asked the waitress abruptly from behind me. I twisted to see her face. Striking, beneath large-framed glasses. Short cut, same length as mine but brunette, deep green eyes, bored expression. Good.
"Cup a Joe, black." Brief. To the point. Didn’t want her to remember I was there. Don’t make an impression, but then, I wasn’t in the business of going unnoticed. Well, I wasn’t in any business. I had no business being in this end of town. This state. Why had I come?
I looked down at my fingers, shaking. Removed the rock from my finger under the table and slipped it into my purse in a little pocket, silk. Rubbed a bit where it had been. My hands a bit clammy. OK, get your story together. I smoothed over the rough patches of the last forty-eight hours, filled in other bits. Realized I was preparing for an interrogation. Retrieved the ring, slipped it back on. Not the first, wouldn’t be the last.
"Here’s your coffee." I sat up straight. So, there it is, a decision. I rehearsed a new way into the story. Backtrack. Start at the beginning, there's no start at the end. I looked out the window. It was still pouring hard. Looked around the diner, empty as a dentist's waiting room. Lone man with a newspaper a few booths away, another man at the counter eating eggs, cook in the back splashing around.
Shouldn’t even be here, people are going to take notice. Maybe not. Did it matter? This wasn’t the part to hide. William had been a no-good man. Fast talker, never without his check book poised, always looking around for some pennies from heaven. He had spotted me fresh out of the gates, flying high on my string of wins. But the drinking, and the late nights out. He’s disappeared. That’s it. I’m scared - concerned - upset? He was a good man with some secrets, maybe. He was two-timing, better? Maybe just explain how little I knew about him, naive. He went missing a couple of days ago. Didn’t come home. Typical behaviour? All of this so far from the truth. I lit a cigarette. Just breathe.
The rain stopped. "Check." Coins on the table. One caught as it tried to roll off. You and me both, dime. Crossing the street. Sun is out. Everything is fine. OK: number 15. What a draft this building has. Entrance might as well be ...
Stairs or elevator? Get it together. I will start at the beginning, I am just a small-town girl, moved here, knew no one except my husband, no one to turn to, not sure what to do, where could he be? That’s it.
The long hallway smelled like full ashtrays. I checked my purse again to make sure I still had my cigarettes. Had left diner abruptly. Clicked the case shut in relief that I had plenty if my story ran longer. Three cigarettes and I will go. My purse felt lighter now than it had for the past week. I stood outside the office with its banged-up number, 15, and Private Investigator Malaise written in gold letters, cheap. I checked my lips in my compact, patted back my unhinged curls, inhaled, pursed my lips, and knocked.
Great!
Bravo! Excellent. I like the anxiety ... well done.