** Piano Fingers **

Diner was freezing with the fans whirling overhead. As if they’d grown accustomed to the previous week’s sunshine – a lagging adjustment to the newly acquired gray hue peering in through the window. She couldn’t feel her toes – brought her legs up underneath her and curled deeper into her hoodie.
Her book was warm, at least. She stifled a yawn, shivered, poked one finger out from the cover of her sleeve and chewed nervously at the barely-there nail.
Three men in collared shirts claimed the booth across from her, sucking in and lifting their bellies as they squished together across the vinyl.  
“…taking the girl there… got the tickets for… paid the fee …”
Tid bits of the bearded one’s announcement cut through the cadence in her head… she reread the same sentence four times, squirmed in her seat, glanced at the intruders.
She caught his eye – held it. For a moment the table grew silent. Her foot tingled beneath her – asleep. She smiled – a half truth – looked down to rub life into her converse. Could still feel his eyes on her.
“Awww…” groaned the lanky one – his face scrunched up, eyes squinted. “This is bad. I thi- oh, awwww… I think this is bad… smell it.” He held his milk container out to the bearded one, who sniffed its contents.
“Ma’am. Ma- scuse’ me… Hey honey!” It was the third one. Very helpful.
The waitress smiled as she made her way over. She was young. Perhaps twenty? A lovely Mexican girl, her long black hair pulled loosely into a bun – eyes large and quiet.
“Yes?” Her accent apparent even then.
“Is this bad?” The bearded one, now clearly in charge, thrust the milk beneath her nose.
She jumped, retreated. Tentatively reached for the container – peered at the label.
“Isset bad?”
“Yeah. It’s bad. You know – like – expired. No good. Rotten. What’s the date on it?”
She twisted the milk back and forth, brought it above her head to peer at the bottom.
“I….” she hesitated. “I don’t s- you would like a new one?”
All three stared at her blankly.
“I check.” She was shy. Her movement slow as she recapped the bottle and cradled it against her chest – one delicate hand placed on top, the other tenderly hugging the bottom.
She watched her disappear behind the front counter into the kitchen.
“She didn’t have a clue!” laughed the lanky one.
The third one elbowed him, laughed, “You should have yelled at her for making you sick!”
 “We should have made her taste it,” commanded the bearded one.
“I should get a free meal.”
“We should all eat for free!”
“You should gag and make her give you mouth to mouth!”
 
She opened her mouth to say something. Closed it. Shivered, this time not from the cold. They laughed. Poked fun. Carried on. Body tense, she reread the sentence once. Twice. Thre-
The girl returned then with a new milk. Smiling. Held it out softly.
“This es new. It was good, though. It come today. You wan this wan?”
She saw it, the shakiness of her outstretched arms. The tensing of her shoulders visible from behind. The flick of her pinky as condensation slithered down the neck of the milk bottle.
The men eyed her.
She took a breath.
“How do I know it was good?” Lanky one grinned. A challenge.
The girl stressed, cocked her head to the side. Faltered in her offering.
“You expect me to just believe you?” His voice grew louder. Shouting.
 
She imagined this is how it must have been. Something akin to spoiled milk, that one time – back at university. Could remember everything.
She had gotten off work early, which never happened. Decided to stop by her friend’s dorm for the night to surprise her. The door was open a crack; she knocked out shave and a hair cut… but nothing.
“Bre?” she waited.
“Bre?”… nothing. Pushed the door open. Saw her there. Her small frame curled up in a ball on the bed. She smiled – gently slipped through, made her way across the room.
Banged her knee against an overturned crate. “Shit!”  She groaned, hunched over, squeezed away the irritation. “Mother fucker…” Composed herself and limped over to the bed, where she quietly lowered herself onto the corner.
“Bre…”
“Bre-eeee…” she sang. Reached over to tickle her ear, muffled a giggle.
“Bryana…. Wake up!!!” she whisper-yelled, bouncing up and down.
Her friend groaned. Half turned before giving up, falling back into place.
“Comeon Bre, get your ass outta b-“  she saw it then. On her inner thigh. It was new.
She had never seen her do it before. Only knew that she did. Or had, rather. It had been awhile. Had been.
“Oh my go- Bre… Wake up. Fuck…” She reached for her friend, rocked her backward to expose a pink towel, a pool of blood.
She was scared. It took a long while for Bre to calm her down.
Aside from working at the library, Bre had been a waitress at the Filling Station for a few months. Every week she sent her paycheck back home to her mom, who had been out of work for a little over a year then – after having been diagnosed with breast cancer. Bre, too, was always working.
“Bad day.” Bre shrugged. Her voice its usual high, quiet pitch. They sat together, huddled beneath Bre’s pink comforter – their backs against the cinder block wall. Legs crossed.
“I bumped into a chair and dropped my water pitcher,” she was fidgeting with the tassels on the pillow in her lap, her eyes quiet, heavy, “a little bit got on a man’s shoe. He yelled at me.”
She imagined how it would have worked. Her small friend’s eyes filled with terror. Hands trembling. Bre had piano fingers – long and slender, like the rest of her.
“I just stood there,” she whispered, “and he kept yelling. I ran into the kitchen and started crying….” She got quiet. Sighed. “They sent me home. They weren’t mad… just because I was so upset…”
She glanced sideways at her friend, then. Her eyes wet. Her nose red.
“I mis-,” she swallowed, sighed again, “I missed out on the rest of my shift…”
Bre laid her head on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I just got so mad at myself.”
They spent the night in. Made instant cocoa in the microwave. Watched Gilmore Girls. Ate strawberry pop tarts and cinnamon oatmeal. It got late. They sighed when Rory fought with Jess. Yelled at her for being such a girl. Laughed at Suki. Swooned over Luke. It got later.
“I better go.” She sighed. “You okay?”
“I’m good now. Really. It was stupid… I don’t even have it anymore.” Bre smiled meekly.
She shifted on the bed. Nodded.

“I think I can convince Debbie to let me sign on a double for a few shifts this weekend… at the Library. You want em’?”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
“Cool… well, call me if you need me. I mean – just call me, okay. Whenever. Always…” she treaded water. Waited.
“I will. Promise.”
She bounced off the bed, picked up her bag, headed for the door.
“Hey…”
Stopped. Glanced over her shoulder, her hand on the knob. “Yeah.”
“Don’t tell anyone?”
She stilled. Hestiated. Opened her mouth to speak. Lost the words.
“They’ll take away my scholarship…”
She glanced back at her friend then, blinked away the moisture. She looked so frail there – her short brown hair pulled up in a half pony tail. Her button down blouse with flowers. Her long legs…
“I won’t tell. I promise.” Smiled a half-truth, turned the handle, left.
 
They graduated a few years later. Drifted apart a short while after. She heard through a friend that Bre had gotten married, had a baby girl. They were living somewhere in Seattle. Her mom had passed before the wedding.
She never did tell anyone. Had always hated herself for keeping that promise.
 
 
“Your salad?” the girl smiled at her, waiting.
She blinked – glanced over at the men. When did it st-
“Yes. Thank you.” She closed her book and cleared a space.

"You always reading. You in school?"

"Not anymore, but I still like to." She shrugged.

The girl slid the plate in front of her, smiling.
“Can I ge-“
“Crackers? Yes – I have them.” She reached into her apron, carefully placed eight packets of saltine crackers on the table.
She laughed. “You always remember, thank you.”
“You like crackers.” She laughed, too.
“Yeah,” she shrugged shyly, ”everyone always makes fun of me. But… I like a lot of crackers in my salad…”
“Me, too.” She nodded, shrugged. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s it. Thank you so much.”
The girl smiled. Turned
She watched her make her way back toward the kitchen.
The men continued their previous conversation. Something about cheap tickets or cheap women, she blocked them out the best she could. Ate her salad.
Time to go. She gathered the cracker wrappers and piled them onto her plate. Brushed away the crumbs. Glanced over at the trio.
“Hope the ranch wasn’t bad,” laughed the bearded one, pointing to her salad. He chuckled, his minions smirking – they eyeballed her as she rose from the table.
“Asshole.” She muttered. Reached the door, glanced back.
“See you tomorrow!” called the girl as she waved high above her head, her fingers long and slender – floating through the air like feathers caught in a breeze.

She waved back. The similarities weighing heavily on her own bitten down fingertips.