my father, the carpenter

#This is a work in progress to be part of a larger story.

*** age 26 ***

I'm not usually like this; I don't usually do things like this. The beat up 1977 Rand McNalley road atlas is spread open in front of me, steaming mug of coffee next to it. I'm lost in the lines, navigating my life to some hidden meaning that has yet to be found. My eyes trace the penciled routes, my fingers trace the notes. The little street-corner dinner is empty; white painted walls, dark blue upholstered booths line the walls with tables set between. I don't even notice the waitress, apron around her waist, standing there, coffee carafe in hand. I’m thinking about my 8th birthday, my father gave me a socket set, I loved it. The waitress’s voice brings me back to the present.

“Hm?” I look up.

“I said would you like some more coffee?”

“Yes please” I reply, scooting the mug to the edge of the table before taking my glasses off and setting them on the map, flexing my neck, left to right. I yawn into the back of my hand, the waitress is still standing there. I take a moment to look at her, average height, slim, brown eyes, light brown hair pulled up with a few loose strands falling to either side of her face. Beautiful in a quiet sense, someone who may just look average from a glance but upon a closer look you notice the warmth in her eyes. She smiles.
I realize I’ve been staring at her.
I clear my throat and look down at my coffee and slide my fingers through the handle, my left palm taking in the warmth of the mug.

“Thank you” I say, nodding at the mug before taking a sip of coffee.

“Where are you traveling?” she motions to road atlas, taking a quick look around the dinner before sitting down across from me. Setting the insulated coffee carafe on the table between us.
For the moment we are alone.

“I… uh….I'm not really sure.” I answer. I honestly don’t know if I’m just starting, coming or going.

“Well where are you from?” she asks with a smile.

“Wisconsin” I reply, taking another sip of coffee

“and what are you doing in Colorado?” she asks. I look at her, take a sip of my coffee and say “I don't know.” I sense that she feels uncomfortable now; she assumes I don't want to talk, the question is whether that’s true or not, she shifts uncomfortably.
“What’s your name?” I ask, retrieving my rectangle lense, plastic framed glasses from the table, sliding them on my nose, over ears. With my glasses on I can now read her name tag.
“Amy”
“Nice to meet you, I'm Edwin.” extending my hand across the table, she smiles, a quiet smile at the edge of her lips and takes my hand, and returns the firm squeeze and slight shake.
“How long are you in town for?” she asks, holding my hand there, I hardly notice, all my attention is on her eyes, hers on mine. I can feel a warm smile coming to my lips.
“Well...” and before I can finish the large man who I assume is the cook comes out of the kitchen.
“Amy!, get back to work!” She jumps out of her seat, her hand darts out of mine to the coffee carafe on the table. She starts to go then turns back, blushing, she scribbles something down and hands me my check before retreating to the kitchen. I read it as she disappears through the kitchen doors.

“Call me tonight”
-Amy
Below she lists her phone number.

This kind of thing never happens to me.