Tuesday, December 13, 1921
Dear Diary,
He showed up at the diner again.
I still didn’t catch his name. Anthony? Nick? Enzo? It’s too late to sneak it out of him. I tried, introducing the other girls, but he just winked and said, “Hiya,” and never offered up. To ask now would be an insult, and I can’t afford to insult a customer who tips as if he’s got a Rockefeller in his back pocket. My money’s been getting lost on its way to my purse. Where it goes, nobody knows....
Maybe I’ll give him a nickname. I do it with all the regulars, and it looks as if this mystery man is on his way to becoming one, though he doesn’t look anything like the red-faced, doughy boys who sit at my counter, ample rears hanging over the sides of their stools. This guy isn’t tall or strapping, but he’s not a shrimp either. His hair is so dark and shiny I can almost see my reflection in it. He wears the top a little long, stray locks brushing against skin the color of tea with milk. His general swarthiness makes his eyes pop like sapphires on black velvet.
I should call him Blue.
That is, if I get a chance. You never know with diner customers. Chicago is a big, unpredictable city—a fella could come every day for a week and then disappear into the ether. Happens all the time.
I hope this one comes back. He’s interesting, and I need interesting. He’s also nice. This evening he ordered a slice of my sorry excuse for a raisin pie. I hadn’t cut into it all day.
And, truth be told, he’s gorgeous. Who doesn’t like to look? To dream?
The new girl—Hildy—made sure she got an eyeful. The other girls don’t like her—whatever she does with her nights leaves lines on her face and slows her walk—but I do. She always refills the sugar bowls without being asked and isn’t afraid to scrub out a burnt coffeepot. “Who’s the gent?” she said while Mr. Blue dug into his pie. “He doesn’t have a good sense of direction, does he? What’s he doing in Germantown?”
I shrugged. “Who knows? Some college boy with time on his hands.” He attends Rush Medical College. It’s the one fact I do know about him and, by golly, I’m going to hang on to it pretty tight.
The corner of Hildy’s cherry-red mouth tilted upward. “More like mama’s boy,” she teased.
It’s only a saying, but my heart squeezes with jealousy when I think of someone—anyone—having a mother still walking this world. Mine’s been gone three months, but the feeling won’t leave me. Father Ulrich says we can’t mark grief the way we mark time, in increments. If he’s right, then there’s something very wrong about me because all I do is count the days since she passed, hoping my glum mood will lighten a smidge with each check on the calendar. It doesn’t. I’m climbing slowly out of a deep well, rung by rung on a rickety ladder that could go out from under my feet at any minute. It makes me careful. So careful.
My emotions live pretty far under the surface, so Hildy didn’t read the sorrow, she only picked up a shift in my mood. “Oh, Rita, you’ve got it bad, don’t you?”
“It’s Marguerite,” I said primly. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh,” she said.
Hildy’s lucky I like her, because I wanted more than anything to slap her smug grin from here to State Street. She wasn’t wrong, though. I do think he’s sweet, but I have to be careful. I need to hold on to this job. A good waitress knows diner crushes should only turn into true romance in the realm of the imagination. Our torrid affair could take place between my ears while I mix a single-chocolate malted. That way, I don’t risk making a fool of myself. If I can keep my thoughts private, my daydreams starring Mr. Blue will do what they’re supposed to—make the long day skip along at a nice pace. No one has to be the wiser. That’s the sacred motto of restaurant workers everywhere—Keep It to Yourself, Kid.
I would have told Mama.
Dear Diary,
He showed up at the diner again.
I still didn’t catch his name. Anthony? Nick? Enzo? It’s too late to sneak it out of him. I tried, introducing the other girls, but he just winked and said, “Hiya,” and never offered up. To ask now would be an insult, and I can’t afford to insult a customer who tips as if he’s got a Rockefeller in his back pocket. My money’s been getting lost on its way to my purse. Where it goes, nobody knows....
Maybe I’ll give him a nickname. I do it with all the regulars, and it looks as if this mystery man is on his way to becoming one, though he doesn’t look anything like the red-faced, doughy boys who sit at my counter, ample rears hanging over the sides of their stools. This guy isn’t tall or strapping, but he’s not a shrimp either. His hair is so dark and shiny I can almost see my reflection in it. He wears the top a little long, stray locks brushing against skin the color of tea with milk. His general swarthiness makes his eyes pop like sapphires on black velvet.
I should call him Blue.
That is, if I get a chance. You never know with diner customers. Chicago is a big, unpredictable city—a fella could come every day for a week and then disappear into the ether. Happens all the time.
I hope this one comes back. He’s interesting, and I need interesting. He’s also nice. This evening he ordered a slice of my sorry excuse for a raisin pie. I hadn’t cut into it all day.
And, truth be told, he’s gorgeous. Who doesn’t like to look? To dream?
The new girl—Hildy—made sure she got an eyeful. The other girls don’t like her—whatever she does with her nights leaves lines on her face and slows her walk—but I do. She always refills the sugar bowls without being asked and isn’t afraid to scrub out a burnt coffeepot. “Who’s the gent?” she said while Mr. Blue dug into his pie. “He doesn’t have a good sense of direction, does he? What’s he doing in Germantown?”
I shrugged. “Who knows? Some college boy with time on his hands.” He attends Rush Medical College. It’s the one fact I do know about him and, by golly, I’m going to hang on to it pretty tight.
The corner of Hildy’s cherry-red mouth tilted upward. “More like mama’s boy,” she teased.
It’s only a saying, but my heart squeezes with jealousy when I think of someone—anyone—having a mother still walking this world. Mine’s been gone three months, but the feeling won’t leave me. Father Ulrich says we can’t mark grief the way we mark time, in increments. If he’s right, then there’s something very wrong about me because all I do is count the days since she passed, hoping my glum mood will lighten a smidge with each check on the calendar. It doesn’t. I’m climbing slowly out of a deep well, rung by rung on a rickety ladder that could go out from under my feet at any minute. It makes me careful. So careful.
My emotions live pretty far under the surface, so Hildy didn’t read the sorrow, she only picked up a shift in my mood. “Oh, Rita, you’ve got it bad, don’t you?”
“It’s Marguerite,” I said primly. “And I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh,” she said.
Hildy’s lucky I like her, because I wanted more than anything to slap her smug grin from here to State Street. She wasn’t wrong, though. I do think he’s sweet, but I have to be careful. I need to hold on to this job. A good waitress knows diner crushes should only turn into true romance in the realm of the imagination. Our torrid affair could take place between my ears while I mix a single-chocolate malted. That way, I don’t risk making a fool of myself. If I can keep my thoughts private, my daydreams starring Mr. Blue will do what they’re supposed to—make the long day skip along at a nice pace. No one has to be the wiser. That’s the sacred motto of restaurant workers everywhere—Keep It to Yourself, Kid.
I would have told Mama.
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