She's just saving up enough money to make it through evening school, serving platters of pancakes and endless cups of coffee in the brightly lit diner that's trying too hard to mimic that Edward Hopper painting. Her arms are too slender, her waist too small, the apron cinched tight around her hips as the drivers talk to and about the girl behind the counter. She scrubs her knuckles raw somewhere past 3 AM, waiting for the sunrise to come up through the windows.
He was born for the corn fields that roll by his truck door, mile after mile of waving green and gold that kids laugh and run and hide in. There's not that much he needs to hide from now, with his family history past and buried and noted in small type in the local newspaper, but he keeps moving across the long expanse of the U.S. of A because it's in his bones by now, it's a habit that's too hard to break.
The cab pulls into the nearly-empty parking lot, one of many anonymous trucks until the paint flashes gold and purple under fluorescent lights. She spots its distinctive flair and has a cup of coffee waiting for him when he arrives. He sits down at the counter, folding his arms on the polished wood with familiar creases under his eyes.
"What's the pie today?" He asks although the answer's on display in glass cases beside his elbows.
"Coconut and peach," she replies, the threadbare rag she's been using piled in on itself beside her hands.
"A slice of peach, and maybe some whipped cream?"
"Coming right up."
They speak in smiles and subtext, find pleasure in seeing each other again and comfort in a familiar face. She dishes up the pie as requested, her red hair gleaming in its waves; he sips his coffee and continues the small talk, making light of everything and nothing. She wonders what it would be like to hop in his cab and let him take her away from here; he wonders if he could ever build a house with his own hands for her, safe and warm and somewhere to settle into.
One can't leave, one can't stay - but for a little while, the stars dancing beyond the streetlights, they can share this place where their paths meet.
fic: nighthawks, g, no warnings
He was born for the corn fields that roll by his truck door, mile after mile of waving green and gold that kids laugh and run and hide in. There's not that much he needs to hide from now, with his family history past and buried and noted in small type in the local newspaper, but he keeps moving across the long expanse of the U.S. of A because it's in his bones by now, it's a habit that's too hard to break.
The cab pulls into the nearly-empty parking lot, one of many anonymous trucks until the paint flashes gold and purple under fluorescent lights. She spots its distinctive flair and has a cup of coffee waiting for him when he arrives. He sits down at the counter, folding his arms on the polished wood with familiar creases under his eyes.
"What's the pie today?" He asks although the answer's on display in glass cases beside his elbows.
"Coconut and peach," she replies, the threadbare rag she's been using piled in on itself beside her hands.
"A slice of peach, and maybe some whipped cream?"
"Coming right up."
They speak in smiles and subtext, find pleasure in seeing each other again and comfort in a familiar face. She dishes up the pie as requested, her red hair gleaming in its waves; he sips his coffee and continues the small talk, making light of everything and nothing. She wonders what it would be like to hop in his cab and let him take her away from here; he wonders if he could ever build a house with his own hands for her, safe and warm and somewhere to settle into.
One can't leave, one can't stay - but for a little while, the stars dancing beyond the streetlights, they can share this place where their paths meet.