Her apron was the sort that a fifties housewife probably wore. A tiny piece of red and white check with a pocket and frills around the edges.
Waitresses had to look sexy, she thought.
Should she stand up when he arrived? Stay sitting? Be looking looking at the paper whilst twirling a piece of hair? It didn't bear thinking about, was it even important to him what she looked like any more? He's be wearing the same coat he'd worn since he was in his twenties. She only knew this because he'd told her that he'd wear it so that she could recognise him. There wasn't a foggy day in hell's chance that she wouldn't recognise him.
She wondered if he'd chosen the coat because she had loved it.
Then there he was. Doorway rubbing his hands together and blowing air into them. Foggy breath coming out of his mouth. He pulled his hands down and there was the winning smile. A thousand watt bulb of a smile that she had thought, every day that she'd known him, was the most magnificent smile on earth. Even when she didn't love him anymore that smile was still a killer.
The waitress knew him and tilted her head to the side and said his name in a squeaky young woman thrilled to talk to you voice. Joshy! God Joshy really?
He'd smiled at the waitress and shuffled past a woman going the other way but his eyes were on her, all wrinkling up at the sides from smiling.
She laughed and raised an eyebrow, "Joshy?"
He laughed back.
Three cups of coffee later and an hour into the conversation he reached over and pointed his finger at her.
She knew the score. She reached her hand out, heal of it on the table top just like his and they touched finger tips.
'I used to sleep in that coat, well under it at least, when you worked nights.'
'I know, it would smell like your hair after words.'
'I'd always hang it up because I thought it would make you mad that I did that, that you'd see it as a sign of weakness, or worse, that you'd think I was only doing it because it was cold in our apartment.'
'I'd sleep in your teeshirts.'
She did one loud hard happy laugh.
'You'd what?!'
'No really I would, your big Tori Amos one, the one she signed that you'd never wash because of the things, the signature.'
'Why that one? Sorry, I'm still laughing at the idea of you sneakily dressing up in my clothes whilst I was not at home.'
'Not sure why it was that one- it was a pretty big tee-shirt, most of yours wouldn't have fit me.'
'True.'
She'd missed it at first. What he'd said. She always missed it.
He'd said the same thing that she'd said. Except with one thing missing. She'd thought he'd get angry and that was what worried her, or that he'd not think that she cared and it would never dawn on him that she might.
Twelve years and they were already doing it. Like junky buddies who'd only ever known eachother through the drugs. Or bar buddies who've never had a sober conversation.
Here they were missing the point all over again.
She washed her face in the basin in the cafe bathroom, careful not to make her eye makeup run.
He'd think she was crying if she stayed too long but she just needed a moment to look at herself- be reminded of what she was now.
Back in the booth she slid over the red vinyl and opened up her bag and took out some notes and put them on the dish with the bill in front of her. Then she took out a letter.
She handed it to him and stood up and left.