The glass was raised, the lips parted slightly, a sliver of tongue, just visible, reaching eagerly toward the icy liquid. Fist contact of glass to lip, a slight clunk of ice against a front tooth confirming the anticipation; the need of the throat to share in the experience. The gums seize up slightly at the sudden invasion of cool splendor. The first trickles run delightfully, almost playfully, into the throat. The grateful contraction of swallowing, gradually at first, then more greedily as if remembering there was more in the glass and more where that came from. The surge of chill as the liquid makes its final dump into the stomach which sloshes gratefully as the entire content lands.
Her fingers snake to the stomach, sure that she will be able to feel the coolness through the nap of her shirt, through the wall of skin and muscle. The hands drop to her thighs and while hunched over she takes deep calming breaths through her nose and out through her mouth. Fingers walk steadily up to the hips and then the unbending of the torso until she is once again standing at full height.
She is now able to stare across the counter at the waitress who is staring back with a mixture of concern and bemusement. "You passable now, hon? You look like you had the devil at your heels when you came running in here." She nodded slightly, not really sure what it felt like to have the devil at your heels, but ready to concede that she just may have found out.
"You're still palpitating child. Sit down and have another glass full while I get you up a supply of eggs. I put plenty of ice in there so you can get availed of it easy-like."
Who talks like this she wondered as the waitress made her way into the back room. Why was she talking like this, with these words, especially this little fizzy-headed waitress smack dab in the middle of Nowhere, Arizona; a waitress apparently who doubles as a chef and could very well be the only resident of this place; a waitress who wears an old-fashioned uniform making her look more like a nurse than a waitress, complete with white rubber-soled shoes, a little frilly half-cap, and the name 'Mrs. Jones' emblazoned boldly on her slightly askew name tag?
She felt a frisson of her earlier fear creep back in at the base of her spine and make a spidery crawl upwards. Despite this, she sat down feeling abruptly sure that the eggs just might be the cure for the devil at your heel. The backs of her thighs instantly stick to the red vinyl seat of the bar stool and she see-sawed them up and down feeling the suction pulling and releasing her skin. She watched as the hot, dry desert wind gently opened and closed the screen door of the diner, seemingly in rhythm with her fittering legs, her jittering nerves.
Keeping the same rhythm, almost trancelike, she began muttering, "eggs, eggs, cure the devil, eggs, devil, devil, eggs, deviled eggs. Deviled Eggs..." and a screach of laughter tore from her throat followed by a screach of terror as a plate of eggs was plunked on the counter in front of her. "You ain't assuaging yourself none, are ya hon? You just eat this up and you'll start feeling better in a jiffy. Then I'll get you off to bed with the others."
She took her fist tentative bite, trying not to speculate about these 'others'. There didn't seem to be anyone else around for miles. "Egg, devil, devil, egg." Go to bed? It was barely morning and although she was tired from having driven all night, she really did not like the idea of this waitresses 'bed' or the 'others'. "Devil, devil, egg, egg."
She was therefore amazed when she looked down to see her plate empty, the waitress who was smiling at her with satisfaction, her full stomach signalling the disappating fear and she smiled back. To prepare for her rest, she raised the glass and parted her lips slightly.
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