Bleed by Laurie Faria Stolarz

diner in Robby’s hometown. I know exactly where it is. I made it one of my first must-sees when I got here. It was weird being inside the place after Robby had talked so much about it, after picturing him in there, amid the red-and-white-checked tablecloths, the shiny black vinyl booths and the bright aqua jukebox in the corner, loaded with tunes by Elvis and the Beatles.
    When I get off the bus, I can see the diner in the near distance, two blocks away. I look down at my watch. It’s after ten thirty. Robby’s probably already inside. I hurry down the street, feeling the sandal straps bite into the backs of my heels.
    The bells on the diner door jangle as I push it open. I look around. There are several couples seated in booths. One woman and her daughter at the jukebox. An older man talking to the waitress. And two stray males at each end of the counter. Both look up when I enter. One is dressed in army fatigues. He has military-short, jet-black hair, with a five-o’-clock-shadowy chin, and just enough pump in his arms—not too bulky. I’m thinking it’s him, thinking he must be about twenty-one. He sort of smiles at me as he takes a sip of coffee. I smile back.
    But it’s the other guy that stands up, allows his napkin to roll right off his lap. “Kelly,” he says.
    “Yeah?” I feel myself cringe inside. I feel like, for one horrible-bitchy-mean little moment, I should deny who I am and go flying out the door.
    His hair is parted to the extreme left side, dad-style, and he’s wearing plumber-loose jeans that hang around his hips. Where Army-guy’s arms are perfectly bulgy, Robby’s are overly rounded from too much prison food. What happened to all the working out he was supposedly doing? I feel hopelessly shallow sizing him up this way. The guy has been in prison, for God’s sake.
    “Hi,” I say finally, noticing that the jeans are brand new, still dark, dark blue, not yet baptized from the wash. His dress shirt, as well, is still in creases from the package.
    He smiles at me, then laughs. And we both kind of stand there, me at the door and him in the corner, not really knowing what to do.
    The longer I stare, the more I can tell that it’s him. Same green-blue eyes. Same slender nose. That heart-shaped chin. Just older. And maybe more average.
    Still, it’s him, and I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this is real.
    He starts to walk toward me, and he can’t stop smiling, like there’s a giant boomerang wedged in his mouth.
    “Robby?” I say.
    “Finally,” he says. “It’s so good to see you, to hear your voice.”
    Before I can reply, he slips me into his arms and wraps me up like a pretty package. I touch the tip of my nose to the lobe of his ear and breathe for him—into his ear, the way he likes, and he smells like Ivory soap tangled in spearmint gum. Not quite the salty scent of virility I’d imagined. He holds me there, like this is normal, in a diner, in front of everyone. Like nothing else matters, and maybe nothing else does. “You look perfect,” he whispers.
    When we finally break, he motions for us to take a seat in one of the booths. “Thanks for coming all this way,” he says, sliding in across from me.
    “Sure,” I say, trying to free my heels of their straps. “It was no big deal.” But he’s barely even listening. He’s just … staring. “Are you hungry?” I grab the menu.
    “Are you nervous?” he asks.
    My first reaction is to lie, but he knows me too well. Knows just about everything, things I barely even tell myself. “Yes.”
    “Well, don’t be. It’s just me, remember?” He takes my hand and draws a figure eight in the palm, over and over and over again. “I’m nervous, too,” he admits. “What are you nervous about?”
    “I don’t know. I guess I’m scared of what you might think of me.” That was the way I’d been feeling, for the past five and a half years, but now, at this instant, I’m not sure if I even care. I readjust myself in