We were at the diner. I liked the way the walls melted into the floors and inscriptions (like cave paintings) signified a purpose of space like that of a home. I had banged the waitress. She was in a mood but was discouraging it through engaging me in some sort of discourse on empiricism and naturalism. I liked the clientele: skanky punks, neurotic hipsters and gentlemen, every one of them understanding the staple was the hangover breakfast which would, in fact, produce a hangover if one was not preexisting; the only way to cope with the after effects was to absorb the scene through observation.
My eyes darted through the booths. I witnessed the loosely socked foot of a slender female ride up to the crotch of the type of man who is sometimes mythologized, a man who is so underwhelming he attracts the scavenger glances of all females around him who would eat crow to attend to his bedside table.
I ordered bacon. She got sausage. We took our coffees outside and smoked our cigarettes while I stared out at the complex apartment tower across the intersection. She got sausage and I needed head.
We walked back in, past the bar riddled with water glasses. The carpet had been worn so deep the distinction between the red and yellow flowers and the brown backdrop would be rendered indistinguishable by the next riot.
I looked at the back of her head as we walked to the booth.
I wanted to yank her hair so that her body would jerk to the floor and I would lift her legs and fuck her by the coffee stand. I would reach up to the coffee pots, grab one and pour the scorching liquid onto her legs, watch it run down into the gash of her body and soak into the floor. I would proceed to fuck her so she bled. The coffee would mix with the menstrual blood my penetration would produce.
She flopped into the booth. I had once written on the wall that I loved her. The walls had been so covered with graffiti that Bon had systematically applied black vinyl over top of segments in an effort to inhibit further vandalism or, to provide a clean slate for more. Consequently, my testament was covered.
The waitress I had fucked brought us our food. I could see her face force a smile, her insecurity was apparent. She put the sausages beside her toast with her fingers, pushed the potatoes back with a knife, took the salt & pepper and applied them liberally to her eggs. She placed the salt & pepper down by her left hand. She continued to grimace.
She had accused me that morning (in the kitchen) of being unsupportive. I avoided looking at her when I was fucking her. Perhaps because she would express judgement or pain. Perhaps those were intimately connected for her. Perhaps I avoided her gaze because I didn’t want to connect intimacy with love.
I reached the length of the table to get the salt and pepper.
“Your mother called,” she peeped.
I got up to take a shit.