Fluid Thinking

8:00am…

“Would you like some coffee, hon?”

“Yes, please. And some juice if you could.”

“Orange?” Ella is not the mind reading waitress I’d hoped for. To get what I want, I’ll need complete morning thoughts; it doesn’t bode well.

Too many thoughts…too little coffee.

“Yes, please.”

She nods, turns, and ambles. Ella’s next stop: the old man and little girl ahead of me sitting against the window. In this story, the old man we’ll call Grandpa. The little girl? She’s Cindy. Grandpa and Cindy’s conversation leads me to believe that this is not their first meeting. Grandpa’s getting coffee. Cindy’s focused on the blueberry—

“Pancakes!”

“Don’t you think we should order you something to drink first?”

“Pancakes! Pancakes! I want pancakes.” Cindy doesn’t need coffee. She’s battered in enthusiasm.

“Can you say please?”

Now she’s battered in silence. Cindy’s eyes roll back, greeting her forehead. “Hi forehead! You know this strange ‘please’ word Grandpa speaks of?”

Her lids shut tight, in a covert vocabulary egg hunt. Cindy is closed for repairs--

Ping!

Eyes wide sapphire glory blink-blinds me from across the diner. Cindy head tilts “Plee-ee-se?” Her mouth of babe a string of pearls.

8:05am

What am I doing here so early?

Great question. Thanks for asking. You find a good answer; let me know. All I know is the Pirate Queen left her car at the office and took the train last night. It’s the day before Christmas Eve and she wants to leave work early. That leaves me as her early morning pumpkin coach.

What? Where’d I lose you?

You’re looking at the Blogdate? Never go by that—I’m like milk: that’s my sell by date. It’s the date you need to buy my story, not the date I milk the story bull.

Cow?

Eh, maybe you should read the story first before you decide that. I’m just sayin’…

Now is the blogging of our discontent…

So where was I? Oh, December 23. I’m treading consciousness about ready to slip under.

…made glorious by—

“Coffee,” Ella’s back from Cindy’s pancake party.

“Thank you.” Just in time. I order my food and dip my face in my cup.

“Sourdough or wheat toast?”

I look up, black brew rolling from my nose. Ella still hasn’t walked away. “Sourdough.” Coffee falls flow onto the menu. Ella backs away as I lick the food list clean.

Neurons step forward for roll call. It’s too early to be up. Why am I up? Oh, yeah, the pirate queen. She took the train—

“No! Not Bob’s Big Boy! Coco’s!” Grandpa is a little flustered talking to Grandma on the cell phone. “Because I don’t know where the big boy is!”

Maybe I should introduce myself. “I’m the big boy today. How may I assist you?” Naw, Grandpa looks like he carried a gun in Korea. I’ll sit here. I’m not convinced he’s not carrying a gun in his sweat pants now.

Cindy is drawing life-size crayon portraits across the table. She doesn’t care if she’s at Bob’s Coco’s or Denny’s. Me, I’m ok here. Except, did I just lick the menu? I dip my tongue in scalding coffee for sixty-second sanitization bath.

What was I thinking? I look at my briefcase. I didn’t want to leave it in the car.

Peeling tongue flesh reminds me: I used to be Cindy innocent (although they called me Robby). The world was my fresh canvas. My only Crayola limitations were stay-in-lines-black-and-white. I ignored that color.

5…4…3…2…1…

Withdraw tongue from coffee. Dip tongue in cool orange juice.

Cindy looks over and smiles. She thinks I’m flirting.

Oww. That’s how Robby Cindy innocent learned his first lesson: pain. Touch a stove; stop a bike using front brakes only; lick Tammy Graybill’s chocolate covered cheek during sixth grade lunch. Things not to do--all learned through scabs and scars.

Marriage. Yeah, that too, although I learned it much later than sixth grade. Drawing my briefcase to my side, I wonder, did I really learn that? I went through the pain, but four years later I’m a two years mutineer in a relationship coloring blue skies and pretty flowers, every one bearing the Pirate Queen’s name.

“So he bent me over the kitchen counter…” No, it’s not Grandpa and Grandma. This conversation is coming from behind me. I’m guessing it’s the young bedraggled girl who sat behind me. I look back…

Yup, she’s got her phone to her ear. “No! His nose hair! It was exhilarating!”

I turn back to watch Cindy. I like her innocence. She’s got her pancakes, and Grandpa’s asking about the last time she came to visit him and Grandma and they went to the same Big Boy. Looking at the Coco’s sign outside his window, I find myself more than just a little concerned.

“Dan can’t find out—Because! I need his hairy back and toe love. I know! They make me crazy! I’m hot just thinking—Because. I’m telling you. This guy—last night’s guy--he made his nose hair wave like The Pampas in fall…”

I prefer the lost innocence of Cindy and Grandpa to call-girl behind me. She’s still learning that there are some lines to stay within if you don’t want to get burned. There’s a moment when we lose our innocence. We think that everybody we get close to is just like call-girl--or become one ourselves: it’s easier to not get hurt when you don’t let anybody close.

My omelet is here. I sprinkle Tabasco across the plate and look at my briefcase. Chewing on things, I reach in --clutching harsh corners. The box. It’s still there, solid and ominous as ever.

Am I sure I want this?

I’ve been here before. It’s more than breakfast at Coco’s. I’m floating on faith. 2010 was a turbulent sea colored in choices: grad school, unemployment, Hindsight, the house, the Pirate Queen.

The Pirate Queen. She’s kept me afloat. Why? What makes a Rob-lationship worth sailing? Don’t get me wrong. I like me. I float my boat, but what makes her like me? Even more important: what makes her love me?

I know why I love me. I also know why I love her. She’s warm. She’s funny. She’s silly. She’s smart. She sees everything as a list. Even more, she lets me lick chocolate from her cheek without breaking my jaw.

“Grandma!” It’s Cindy. Her grandma is here. Grandpa pops out of his seat, hugging Grandma. It’s warming. It can’t be warming for Grandpa; his sweatpants are slipping. I wish he’d turn the other way. I’m not getting a full moon, but it is at least waxing gibbous.

Grandma notices, and slides her hands down Grandpa’s back, lifting pants and cupping butt in one gesture. Grandpa smiles.

What would I be willing to risk for that? Is that what I want?

I pull the box from my case and smile. I almost cry at the answer: only if it’s the Pirate Queen.

“I’ll just leave this here,” it’s Ella with the check. “Whenever you’re ready—Ohh! That’s nice.”

“Thanks. It’s for my girlfriend.” I wipe my mouth and take the last sip of coffee. “I’m asking her to marry me this weekend.” I grab my check and leave.

I’m ready.