Tats by Layce Gardner

mom’s mom. I only met her a few times and she died when I was six, but I remember her smell. She told me once that when she was a girl she couldn’t afford perfume, so she would dab vanilla extract behind each of her ears. She said it drove the boys nuts and virtually guaranteed that she’d get her ears cleaned every date.
    A cute little brunette waitress with cat eye glasses and naturally pouty lips looks from my tats to my tits and up to my face. “Just one?” she asks.
    “No, two. She’ll be here in a minute.”
    The waitress grabs two menus from the podium and says, “This way.” She guides me to an empty booth halfway back. I scoot in and pick up the menu. “Pot of coffee, please,” I order.
    “Just be a minute,” the waitress says, her eyes lingering on my tats.
    She flips her hair and walks off toward the kitchen. I’m checking out her swing when Vivian opens the door and walks in. I wave at her and she starts toward our booth with a swing that puts the waitress’s to shame.
    Damn. I haven’t seen her for all of five minutes and I get that little shock of how sexy she is all over again. As she passes by each table, all the men turn their heads and follow her with their eyes. She doesn’t seem to notice the stir she’s causing. She’s probably used to it.
    Vivian hovers over me and orders, “Switch me sides.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t like having my back to the door,” she answers.
    “Okay, whatever...”  I slide into the opposite side and Vivian scoots into my warm spot.
    “You know what you want?” I ask, pushing a menu across the table to her.
    She flicks the menu away with a swish of her hand. “Pie. Lemon pie.”
    The cute waitress delivers our coffee and I order pie for Vivian and a country breakfast and Mickey Mouse pancake for myself. This time when the waitress walks off I look at Vivian instead. She takes the sunglasses off the top of her head and puts them on while I pour our coffee.  I watch her dump about ten packets of sugar in hers before taking a sip. She peers around the restaurant through the brown lenses. I can’t see her eyes and I hate that. It’s so hard to tell what someone’s thinking when you can’t see their eyes.
    I drum my fingers on the table and when it becomes all too apparent that Vivian isn’t going to say anything, I try to make conversation. My social skills leave something to be desired and I hate small talk, so I try to lead off with something a bit more meaty. “So...you’re a mistress for a living. And you came back here for a funeral?” I ask.
    Vivian doesn’t answer or even give any indication that she heard me.
    “How long are you staying? In Tulsa? In the U.S.?”
    That question goes unanswered, too.
    “What did you do right after high school? I mean, you didn’t go straight into...your current occupation, did you? Did you go to college?”
    No response.
    “I didn’t go to college. But I did get the reading list for all the classes from OU. Read all the books twice. I guess you could say I have a virtual master’s degree by now.”
    At this point, I still don’t know if she hears me or not, so I throw a weird question in just to see if she’s listening: “How old were you when you lost your virginity?”
    “Eighteen,” she says, still not looking at me. “I have a Master’s in English Lit from OU, which qualifies me to do absolutely nothing, and I’m going to be in the States until I leave.” She pulls her glasses down to the tip of her nose with her index finger and looks at me over the rims. “How long have you been out of prison?”
    I gulp hard, burning my tongue on the hot coffee. I grab for my water and gulp that too hard, also.
    Vivian pulls a business card out of the depths of her cleavage and places it on the table between us. I only have to glance at it to know what it is.
    “Your parole officer’s card was in the visor.”
    I pick up the card and without looking at it, put it in my back pocket. Now it’s my