Table five is two burger baskets, with cheese, and one kiddie chicken strip with tots. We’re the two chicken-fried steak specials, salad with ranch on the side; table twelve.
The screen door squeaks open. The cook peers through the kitchen window, reels in our order clipped to a clothesline. We watch to see who is walking in. Not that we would know them, we are the strangers headed home. Watching people, even after we’ve been thoroughly watched, is something we don’t know we do.
The lady in the purple visor and white Proud Grandma sweatshirt strikes me as a coconut cream pie customer. My companion reaches for more napkins at the next table, the better to study her. Key Lime, he says. It’ll remind her of that one time in Florida.
With her is a much taller woman who has stopped to study the spinner of post cards near the cash register. The rack could hold 40 to 50 assorted cards, but the only ones left feature Judith Gap’s wind farm, thirty-two miles north. I think about sending a card to Who? and writing Remind me where I am. It’s been years since I’ve known the price of a post card stamp.
Earlier this morning we were fishing for Gold Eye, fish neither of us had heard of until bait-shop guy told us we didn’t need to buy his worms. Just use spinners and if the Gold Eye are running, when you catch one, you will catch six or seven. Bam bam bam.
Keylimeguesser caught seven. I caught my spinner on a snag. No big deal, but during the unsnagging process I mentioned my failed forest and how all the trees were down. And now: My Gold Eyes, gone.
He picked his way toward me, through the rocks and wet sand to clip my tackle free and reel in my line. Let’s call you, he said as we knocked mud from our shoes, Not So Many Trees.