“Not bad.”
She sets the fork down with a scoff. “Not bad? You’re crazy. It’s delicious.”
Just then, the waitress sets down my two plates—one piled high with waffles and three dollops of butter on top and the other covered in steaming hash browns.
As she refills both of our coffee cups, there’s an awkward silence between me and the girl to my right. When the waitress leaves, Pink Hair turns toward me. “I’m Sage,” she says.
“Adam,” I reply, putting out my hand. She slides her long, tattooed fingers around mine and shakes it with a firm squeeze.
“Nice to meet you, Adam. Thanks again for giving me your seat.”
“Thanks for sharing your breakfast with me.” I laugh, nodding toward her eggs.
She blushes, covering her cheeks and looking away from me.
I hate to admit it, but it’s actually a little adorable.
“I can’t believe I did that. I worked all night, so sometimes when I’m sleep deprived, I might as well be drunk. I’m sorry.”
A laugh spills from my chest. “Don’t apologize. I should be thanking you for enlightening me about the magic that is
ketchup-covered eggs.”
She knocks my shoulder with her own. “Stop it.”
“Seriously, don’t be embarrassed. I normally sit here alone and eat my breakfast. No one has ever fed me at the bar before.”
This time when she laughs, it’s a feminine giggle, and I get lost in the wrinkles her cheeks make when she smiles so brightly. Her elbow is propped on the bar and she rests her head on her palm, turning toward me and letting her gaze settle on my face as I cover my waffles with syrup.
“You’re going to watch me eat now?”
“It’s either that or fall asleep?”
“Well then, by all means.” With a smile, I lift a hefty bite to my mouth and hum as the sugary sweet syrup hits my taste buds. “Want a bite?” I mumble with my mouth full.
She snickers again.
After a sip of coffee, I start cutting up another bite and glance toward her as I ask, “So, what do you do? What kind of work keeps you up all night?”
“I work at a nightclub. It usually closes at four, but last night was busy, so we stayed open. Which meant I couldn’t leave until almost seven. My boyfriend stayed behind to close up.”
I swallow down more coffee and a stinging sense of disappointment.
“You need some rest,” I reply because I suddenly don’t know what else to say. I feel blindsided by this news of a boyfriend, which is ridiculous. This girl is not my type—
boyfriend or not.
“No kidding, but the real kicker is that I know I won’t be able to fall asleep. I hate sleeping during the day.”
“Then I don’t think the night shift is wise for you.”
With a huff, she shrugs. “I know. It’s ridiculous.” Almost like a sign from God himself, she lets out a yawn, covering her
mouth with her elbow.
“So, tell me about this club of yours. Is it fun?”
A throaty-sounding laugh nearly makes her choke on her coffee. I’m not even sure why I asked that. I have a suspicion I’m subconsciously trying to prolong her stay, even though it’s clear she should pay her tab and go home to sleep.
“It’s not really your type,” she replies, blotting her face with her napkin.
My head snaps toward her after taking a bite of my potatoes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her fingers pinch at her bottom lip as she stares at me with a devious smile. “I mean…look at you. You’re not a club kind of guy. When was the last time you went to one?”
I feign offense. “Are you calling me old?”
“Not at all,” she replies. “I’m calling you…conservative.”
“Still offended,” I reply with a laugh.
“This club is…not for conservatives.”
“Is it a strip club?” I whisper, leaning so close I can smell the flowery scent in her hair.
“No,” she whispers, leaning even closer.
I notice that as we both pull apart, we do so slowly, almost begrudgingly. Is it just me? She’s really flirting with me, isn’t she? Or maybe she’s like this with everyone? Bold of me to assume this beautiful and clearly beguiling woman has any interest in me just because she smiles at me.
And ridiculous of me to assume it matters. She might as well be a house cat with how compatible we are.
After the next couple of bites of my breakfast, I notice her hesitating. She’s biting her bottom lip and staring at her hands that are encased around the tiny ceramic diner mug. I’m about to ask what she’s thinking about when she reaches into her back pocket and produces a black card.
The script on the front is shiny and pink, naturally, as are the edges and logo on the back.
And I let out a laugh as I read the name of the club.
Pink.
Ironic.
There’s not much more information aside from the website, address, and phone number.
“You should…check it out sometime.”
“I will,” I reply as I slip the card into my back pocket.
Sage yawns again, so I flag down the waitress. When she approaches, I promptly inform her that I’ll be paying my pink-haired friend’s tab.
“You don’t have to do that,” she argues.
“Go home. Get some sleep, Sage.”
“Well, aren’t you just my knight in shining armor today?”
she replies sweetly.
“More like khaki slacks. Now go.”
She turns on the barstool so her knees are practically pressed against the side of my thigh. She hesitates before leaving. I’m about to insist she go again when her hand lands softly on my forearm. “Maybe next Saturday, I’ll get off late again and we can share another breakfast.”
My focus is lost on the enigmatic crystal-blue color of her eyes. And for a moment, I don’t see the pink hair or tattoos or piercings. I see a mystery wrapped in beauty, and I start to wonder what might be underneath.
“Maybe…” I reply softly with my gaze on her face.
“Bye, Adam.” With that, her hand leaves my arm, and I feel a cool, empty void where it once was.
“Bye, Sage.”
I watch her leave through the front door and disappear down the street before turning back to my half-eaten breakfast, suddenly less interested in waffles and syrup.
For a while, I just sit on the stool and relive every moment of our conversation, committing her scent and smile to memory since I know it’s the most I’m going to get. It’s hard to decide if I’m really so attracted to her or if she’s just the most interesting person I’ve ever truly met.
Either way, she steals every thought in my head for the rest of my morning—for reasons even I can’t understand.
When I finally pick up my phone again, I see the sermon I was watching is now over.
Two
Sage
“M orning, Gladys,” I call as I cross the soap-scented Laundromat toward the door that leads to my apartment in the back. The sixty-nine-year-old owner is sitting behind the tall counter, watching reruns of Days of our Lives on one of the last working TVs hanging from the ceiling.
“Morning, Sage,” she replies without looking away from the soap opera. “Busy night?”