I found it interesting that Zoe chose to write about a generation in the future, whereas mine is about a woman, and a town, very much stuck in the past. Springtime and adolescence have an obvious correlation, but in this story I wanted to explore how the “late spring” season in a young woman’s life has expanded so dramatically over recent years, at least for some of us.
Thanks to the rarely washed windows at the front of the diner, I can see just enough of my reflection to pretend I’m still fifteen. When I started working here, my mind ran wild with thoughts of saving for one-way tickets to California, college tuition, a tiny apartment of my own in a big city. I counted every penny, letting the same men I went to church with pinch my ass as they ordered lunch. It all seemed worthwhile watching the measly tips add up. And my boyfriend joked that I’d amassed a small fortune—right before we drained it all on a modest wedding and baby furniture.
These days, I could run the place in my sleep, serving up rounds of corned-beef hash in a fugue state to the locals, who now treat me indifferently. The tips were slightly higher when I started, sure, before they got used to seeing me in the same uniform, sometimes stretched over a pregnant belly, but I prefer their apathy. No wagers over my virginity as I walk away from card games, no phone numbers written in threatening scrawls on bar tabs. We’ve settled into a dysfunctional family dynamic I’ll probably be part of until this place implodes.
It’s fine, I convince myself, whenever my girlhood daydreams reappear. It’s easy to spend my days here. And what else would I do at the ripe old age of twenty-six?
My biggest worry is that Daisy, my teenage sister, won’t get out of this town, either. As messed-up as it sounds, she’s become my second chance. Weekends are a drag without her coming in after school once the lunch crowd clears and all the rusty Trump-stickered pickup trucks have driven away.
I was surprised the first time Daisy and her friends came strolling in like regulars. I’d hosted them for sleepovers, but standing there in my dull blue dress made me self-conscious. Still, I was tempted to pull up a chair and join them over Cokes and grilled cheese. Ron, the owner, often told me it was good business to have “pretty young things behind the counter,” so I assumed he’d have no problem with them loitering on the other side.
I realize how pathetic it is that the promise of them coming in defines my days. Staring back at my muted reflection in the window, I tell myself, for the first time in years, that something has to change.