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Besides, there was the tattoo—how would she explain that? Goddamn Sal, she hated him. Another “bad boy” she had gone for. She watched Mark from behind the counter as she cleared greasy plates and utensils in from front of the empty stools. The breakfast crowd was clearing out and the diner was almost empty. He was finishing his breakfast, Western omelet, home fries, toast and black coffee. He must like that omelet, she thought, he gets it almost every time. She picked up a coffee pot and went around the counter to his booth. “Top you off?” Karen said sweetly, using the waitress voice, holding the pot and smiling down at him. His thick jet-black hair spilled over his shirt collar and the tops of his ears. It was mussed, as if he just got out of bed. Mark didn’t look up. He pushed the triangle of the last piece of toast into his mouth and rubbed the crumbs off his fingers onto his plate. He picked up a crumpled napkin and wiped his mouth. He looked up then with blue eyes that always. Her breathing slowed and he could feel her fit herself into his chest to be more comfortable and although he kissed her hair behind her ear softly, he was not sure if she was asleep or in a dream like daze. He just rocked gently and thought of the joys of this plain old rocker. She had liked it the first time she saw it. It was in a shed where it had been stored after his grandparents had died. It was so plain that no one else in the family had coveted it and it had begun to show the signs of ill attention with the wood looking dried. They had commented at the strange design of the seat and his mother had told him that it was grandma’s knitting chair. The explanation seemed plausible enough… plenty of room at the from for a wide lap to work from and narrowing at the back in an almost ‘Y’ shape to allow the threads to be worked and to spill from both sides. They had brought the old rocker home and even he was amazed at the fact that the only attention it needed was just a good lemon.
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