Exploration

Exploration:  A third-person narrator is describing the activities of a 
non-sympathetic character, who is very different from the narrator, while that 
character is waiting for someone.

*******************************************************************************
	
	It was the middle of the afternoon in that time of the east coast year 
when the forests stretch in endless desiccation.   Sylvia was sitting in the 
last booth at the front of Alice’s Diner, and she stared right past her ’73 
glitter-brown Pinto into one of those empty forests across the street.  She 
tapped her chipped nails, Avon Blue-flame, on the gray marbled formica, chewed 
her gum, and wiggled nervously back into her seat.  On the tabletop, the 
obligatory chipped coffee cup sat on the obligatory paper placemat with its 
green advertising.  She’d already tried to read it three times.  The waitress 
poured her a refill and asked if she needed anything else.  She shook her head 
without looking up.  After the waitress walked away, she reached for her 
tapestry purse for the fourth time.  First, she checked through all the pockets, 
just as she had the last time, for money to pay for the coffee, and still she 
stiffened when she found that last quarter wasn’t there.  Her fingers tightened
on the sides of the bag.  “Don’t call attention to yourself,” he had said as he
brushed her long, brown hair back from her face the night before.  “Be careful,
Sylvie,” he had breathed in her ear.  “Don’t screw up.”
  
	She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm down.  There was 
money in the car.  Much, much more than enough for coffee, but she knew not to 
go out there.  She glanced under the table hoping for a quarter in the grimed 
corners.  Nothing.  Running her eyes across the tabletops, she spotted a tip 
nearby.  She remembered the man who had been sitting there.  He was young, 
maybe 25, with long, brown, pony-tailed hair, glasses, a beard.  He had glanced
up at her and smiled when she walked in.  She didn’t smile back – as though she
would be interested in that.  The waitress stepped into the kitchen and Sylvia 
stepped over and grabbed it.  As she sat back down, she smiled in relief.

	Reaching into a side pocket, she fished out the tattered, worn envelope
and checked the smeared writing on the back.  Jennifer, it said.  Jennifer Reed.
And then the address for Alice’s.  She stared at it for a moment, mouthing the 
name.  Then she looked up at the window and focused on her reflection.  My name
is Jennifer, the reflection with the short, short red hair stated.  She blinked.
Jennifer.

	Sylvia picked up another cream, tore open the top and poured it into 
her cup.  The creamy white marbled into the coffee beneath her blue-eyed gaze.  
She looked up as a car pulled in and held her breath, but it wasn’t him.  She 
took a sip and shut her eyes.

	She had dyed her hair, brought the worn loose jeans, t-shirt, blue 
flannel and hiking boots she had bought at Goodwill the week before, and had 
changed in the car.  Just as he had told her to; just like she always did what 
she was told.  Her other clothes, bloodied, were floating down the river where 
she had tossed them from the bridge on her way to Alice’s.

	Uncomfortable in the hiker-girl clothes, she shifted again.  She 
remembered the conversation.  “I don’t want to dress like a redneck.”  He had 
grabbed her wrist hard and whispered in her ear.  “Do what I’m telling you to, 
Sylvie – don’t fuck it up.”  She reached into her bag again and pulled out her
lipstick, Avon Blue-flame.  She used the window as a mirror and applied it 
carefully.  She didn’t like how she looked without make up – old, wrinkly .  
She had always dressed to bring out her assets, though she knew her mother 
thought she dressed like a slut.  She shuddered at the plain woman in the 
window - Jennifer.
 
      He was late, but the requirements were still there.  She had to look 
perfect.  He tolerated no deviations. 


Kathleen Speck
02/17/2009