Twisted tales - страница 3

The clock above Grogan's Deli ticked with the slow, deliberate malice of a landlord waiting for his rent. Inside, Millie, a girl whose eyes held more starlight than the entire Texas sky, nervously smoothed down her already immaculate waitress uniform. Tonight was the night. Tonight, she was going to tell Benny, the shy, bespectacled busboy with the heart of a poet and the hands of a dishwashing champion, how she felt. She'd rehearsed the lines a hundred times: “Benny, you're sweeter than a slice of Mama Grogan's apple pie…” She imagined his blush, the way his glasses would slip down his nose, the stammering confession that would undoubtedly follow.

Benny, meanwhile, was in the back, wrestling with a mountain of suds. He clutched a small, velvet box hidden deep in his apron pocket. Inside nestled not a diamond – Benny couldn’t afford such extravagance – but a perfectly formed sea shell he’d found on Coney Island last summer. He knew Millie loved the ocean, and he envisioned presenting it to her, saying, “Millie, this shell whispers of the sea, just like my heart whispers of you…” He imagined her delight, the way her eyes would sparkle, the understanding that would dawn as she realized this quiet soul cherished her above all things.

Finally, closing time arrived. Millie, a little too brightly, approached Benny, who was scrubbing furiously at a lone, defiant plate. “Benny,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “I… I’ve been meaning to tell you…”

Benny, emboldened, reached into his apron. “Millie,” he interrupted, his voice cracking with nerves. “I have something for you…” He presented the seashell with a flourish.

Millie stared at the shell, then at Benny's earnest face. A slow smile spread across her face, but a different kind of smile than Benny anticipated. “Benny,” she said, “that's so thoughtful! I got a new job! At a seafood restaurant down by the docks. They needed someone with experience serving… well, you know, seafood!” She paused, then added brightly, “It's much better pay. Guess I just have a knack for handling shellfish.”

Benny's glasses slipped. The shell, suddenly heavy, felt like a stone in his hand. He looked from the shell, to Millie, and back to the mountain of dirty dishes, an ocean of unrequited love stretching before him. The clock above Grogan's ticked on, each second now a tiny, mocking laugh. The only thing sweeter than Mama Grogan's apple pie, it seemed, was the irony of fate. He simply nodded, managed a weak smile, and went back to scrubbing, the sound of shattering dishes drowned out by the roar of the ocean only he could hear.