In Real Life

((OOC/author's note: This isn't a usual story. This story was created by Ryn and I one morning when we discussed what our characters would be like in real life and somehow met each other. Before we knew it, a story appeared on the screen. Is it weird to write your own fanfiction? Probably. We agreed to write the story down, each our own version. Here is what I came up with! Enjoy, maybe. I hope!))

At some point in the diner's life, it was a 1950's themed. Nowadays, loneliness edged into the cracks and began eating it away. The only thing that seemed sort of authentic was the kitsch electric Coca-Cola clock in the corner and the jukebox that never worked.
It was never very busy, except early in the mornings when the truckers stopped in for their greasy coffee and short-stack of pancakes.

It seemed like there was never a time when Annie didn't work there. That was close to being true. She began working at the diner when she was still seventeen and it had only been open for a year. It was a lot busier then. However, she still managed to scratch out a fairly good living with tips.

Annie had been really pretty once. She was the kind of woman with Lucille Ball red lipstick and always smelt faintly of Shalimar perfume and menthol cigarettes. But like the diner she worked in, her age began to seep through.
But, she tried. She tried every day even when her feet hurt and her shoulders ached from carrying trays. She almost always had her chestnut hair in pin-curls and always made sure her waitress uniform was clean. Even if the diner wasn't really themed anymore, Annie had a sort of vintage beauty about her. She was really proud of the small, natural birthmark on her cheek that was reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe. (Never mind that she had a splattering of freckles on her cheeks and nose that detracted from it.)

That's because she was a pin-up girl, once. It was a good summer when she fell into that opportunity. But then, her ex-husband happened. He was the photographer. And her son came along. Later, her daughter. And then the dream ended.

The diner had a set of regulars that Annie knew by name. She never called them that, though, because to her, everyone was "honey" and "sweet-heart." It earned her good tips. She had been doing it for years, now, and it made everyone she crossed immediately feel as warm as the food she served.

There was one regular, however, whose name she didn't know. He never failed to come in, not even on the holidays. He'd never order anything but coffee, and sometimes, wheat toast and scrambled eggs.
But, she didn't need to know his name to know his story.
She had gotten pretty good at reading people.

He was an older man. She pinned him to be in his fifties, judged by his long, salt-and-pepper hair-- usually tied in a tight ponytail,  and the age lines on his brow.
He was something, too. She couldn't quite place it. Maybe he had a hint of Latino or Native American blood, not that she judged. Annie never judged anyone, really. Not by their race or what they were like on the inside.
Even the brooding, silent, sort of scary ones like him. People were just people, and everyone wanted the same things. They wanted to be cared for and loved.
She could tell he was an ex-con. He had to be. He had that steel look in his eyes and had apparently learned to keep quiet, because he never said a word. She also saw some faded old tattoos on his thick, large, hairy fingers. She never could quite read what they said.

He was just the stranger that she called 'honey'. He didn't have a real name, as far as she was aware. She never asked and he never volunteered. He was polite, and tipped good. He always came in wearing a worn out, black leather jacket--which was probably just as old as he was. It went with his vehicle. He drove a silver and black Harley, even when it was cold and rainy, like it was now. She knew the motor like an old song every time he came up. She always got his coffee ready for his usual booth before he entered. Black.

That's because it was December and the holidays were right around the corner. Annie used to love Christmas. It was harder now, since she was alone. Her daughter was away at college--and she was so proud of her--and her son was married and lived up in Colorado.
Now, she was alone.

They decorated the diner in ugly, faded, holiday window-clings. Annie loved to help. She brought in some decorations from home. A small, plastic Christmas tree that lit up and rotated when it was plugged in, and a fat, flaked Santa that danced and sang when you stepped too close.

Christmas usually lent itself to bigger tips, but slower business. So, it tend to even out. She often wore her festive light-up pins and sometimes even her reindeer antler headband. Christmas eve, however, was always dead quiet. This year was no different.

The manager, Tony, never closed. Even on holidays. He was a oily, fat man who always carried a stale scent of fish. His Greek accent was thick and he was a good cook. But, he always barked at everyone even when he was in a good mood. He liked Annie, however. Everyone did. He trusted her with the diner many times and allowed her to lock up for the night. He was spending Christmas with his step-kids and complained about the price of electronic gadgets that they had asked Santa for.

It had been three hours since a customer came in. She shut the grill down and decided that she would only serve pie and soup until closing. Outside, it was dark. The weather was somewhere between rain and snow. The brown water-stain on the ceiling was growing. She heard the incandescent hum of the lighting fixtures, and the buzz of the Coke wall-clock.
It was all shattered by the puffing, noisy purr of the familiar Harley motorcycle.

Immediately, she slid from the booth and went to fetch his coffee. She wasn't bothered, per say, that he would be keeping her company. Except she was bothered. He was no company at all because he never said a word, and truthfully...? he spooked her a little. Since there were no other customers, they would stand around in awkward silence until closing.

He came in, soaked from the rain. He sat down at the counter, in front of his steaming cup of coffee. Annie smiled at him, as she always did. Sweet as syrup and warm as fresh milk, she winked at him before she spoke.

"Quite a night out there, eh, honey? So much for a white Christmas. Raining cats and dogs."

The ex-convict merely lifted his dark eyes and looked at her. They weren't so much brown, as they were chips of flint. He said nothing, just as she expected he would.

But, she still smiled and chatted on. She was really good at that. She talked about absolutely nothing for about fifteen minutes before she decided she really wanted a cigarette.

She needed to kick the habit, badly. It was raining outside, and the price of a carton was not getting any cheaper. She already moved to the cheapest, and they tasted terrible and she knew it wasn't improving what she had left of her looks. She was noticing fine lines near her lips and her fingers seemed slightly stained. She coughed, too, every once in a while, even when she wasn't sick.
She sighed longingly, and glanced to the pack that she had smiled at her from the opening of her beaded purse on the counter. She began fiddling with the box, counting the death-sticks she had left. She had five.

"I don't care." He said finally in a voice that was all dirt and gravel. He probably smoked, too. But something more harsh, like cigars.

She turned to him with a raised, penciled-in brow.

"I don't care," he repeated. "If you smoke inside."

What a relief. She hesitated, but then lit up. She'd never smoked inside before, against the rules. She looked at him. True to his word, he didn't seem to mind. She used an dirty coffee mug to ash in.

The stranger finished his coffee. She refilled it twice before offering him pie.

"On the house," She said, "It's Christmas." She smiled her pin-up girl smile. She thought she saw a smile in his eyes, but wasn't entirely sure. It might earn her a few extra dollars in tip.... and for a moment, she felt cheap.

He accepted the piece of cold cherry pie, and it opened the door to conversation.
She sat down next to him and finished the five cigarettes. She told him about her son and daughter, Stacy and Ben. Stacy was a journalist major. She went to community college before she transferred to Arizona State. She was the first person in her family to go to college. She was so smart and talented. Stacy could be anything she wanted. Sure, she has her problems. Her car always needed fixing, she is always asking for money, and don't get her started on her boyfriend. But, Annie was proud of her.
It made her glow inside.
Ben was always busy. He drifted to office job to office job. He could never hold anything down for long. He worked as an insurance claims adjuster, but then got fired. Afterwards, he was a secretary for a small heating and cooling, locally owned business. That didn't work out, either. So, he worked as a propane salesman and then for a call center. She never understood what made him so angry all the time. Like his father, she guessed.
But, Ben's wife was a sweetheart.

She never got to see either of them as much as she wanted to. Stacy at least called to wish her a merry Christmas. Except, she couldn't talk for long.

The stranger listened until it was closing time. She learned his name was Rick and he lived really close by, but that was about all she learned about him.

Annie sighed and took his cup and used plate. She wiped the counter down and decided she wasn't going to do much more than that. The dishes and the register could wait until after Christmas.

It stopped raining at least, she noted. Her truck often didn't like to start when it was damp.
She asked the stranger if there was anywhere he needed to be.

"No." He replied. "No where I need to be." He said as he slid from the bar-stool.

"Then, want to come home with me tonight?" Annie's mouth seemed dry and a flutter was in her stomach. Her lipstick had worn off, she couldn't taste it anymore. The way he paused and looked at her made her suddenly question her impulsive decision.
She never really asked men to come home with her. It wasn't about sex. In fact, the last time she got laid two years ago was when her friend dragged her to the bar and she got too drunk on whiskey. She got about six phone numbers, but only one of them called her back. He was too young for her, but he liked her cowboy hat and the way she knotted her shirt up under her bust. She never saw him again after that.
She just... knew she didn't want to be alone for the holiday. All the talk about her family made her realize just how big a hole she had in her tired heart.

"Sure." He said after some deliberation. It made her sigh that he didn't seem too eager. Maybe he wasn't a rapist, serial killer, or thief. Maybe she even judged him too quickly. Maybe he wasn't an ex-con. Just looked like one. Maybe he was just once in a motorcycle gang or a construction worker of some kind. Something as tough and hard as his old leather face.

She drove. Her blue truck coughed, but started up on the first try. He stared out the window the entire drive home, and didn't say a word.

She tried pressing him for conversation. It was like squeezing blood from a stone. His answers were always short. It didn't seem like he was avoiding talking, it was just that he wasn't a talker-- like she was. That didn't bother her. She had enough words for the both of them.
The air was cold and the heat didn't work properly in her truck. The scraggly, taped leather seats carried the stale smell of her cigarettes.
She was glad the ride home was short.

She lived in a trailer with her two cats. One was old, fat, and gray. The other was orange and just out of kittenhood. The home smelt of cigarettes, damp mold, and uncleaned catbox.
Her home was small and filled with cheap knickknacks she had gathered over the years. There was a painting of Jesus smiling in the corner that above a hulagirl lamp.
Her TV was an old tube in a wooden box that dated from the 70's and the knitted afghan on her sofa was extraordinarily ugly. Despite all this, her home had a sense of warmth in it. There was a lot of love and affection waited to be given, stashed away in the small plastic smiles of her dated tastes.

She invited Rick to sit down. He did. And then he offered her a beer, which he accepted. He didn't take off his coat until he was invited and only used the bathroom after he politely asked.
She asked him a few more questions and learned that his father was a Saudi Arabian and his mother was Canadian. It explained his dark hair and black eyes. He grew up in Montreal, and only moved to Flagstaff, Arizona when his mother found someone new with a stable job. He had duel-citizenship, which Annie thought was exotic and interesting. The only thing he knew about his father was his name, and what he looked like back in 1945 when the picture was taken. His step-father was a used car salesman, and a good man.

And he had no kids and had never married. The rest of his family was still in Quebec, He was alone for Christmas, too.

He was honest with her in her follow up questions. Yes, he had spent time in prison. It was fifteen years. She felt more comfortable after he explained the circumstances.

Like all convicts, he was innocent. Except he wasn't. But, she believed him. He used to have very young, loud neighbors that lived in the trailer across from his. They would drink until dawn and fight. On a sticky summer July evening, one fight was particularly bad. It was out in the open. Several cars passed by and no one was doing anything. He heard a girl screaming. She wasn't angry, she was scared. He looked out the window and saw four men on her.

"How," he thought out loud, "Could someone not DO anything?" he asked rhetorically. He went on to explain that her shirt was ripped open. He went out into the back of his trailer and grabbed a heavy lead pipe.

He didn't kill anyone, but one of the men was now permanently attached to a feeding tube and not expected to wake up. Because of his prior, smaller, convictions, he was sent away because of the brutality. No one missed him.

He spent the time in prison learning about everything. From theoretical physics to learning to speak fluent Arabic. He spoke three languages, now.

After he was done talking, Annie leaned over. The two and a half beers were getting to her already. Annie wasn't a big thing, after all.

"Do you mind if I..." She paused and gave a sloppy smile. "Kiss you?" Her eyes were heavy lidded and for a moment she looked exactly like the pin-up girl she used to be. A lick of chestnut hair curled across her forehead.
He didn't say anything. He didn't say yes, because he was already kissing her and tugging her cardigan off. One of the pearl buttons fell off and rolled under the couch.
She was wearing old fashioned hose and black garter belt under her uniform. She just liked them, and thought they were sexy. She didn't wear them every day, but she was glad she did this time.

He made love to her on her couch. They knocked over the hulagirl lamp, and it broke in two. They were reckless and laughing as she ground into his hips. She liked the way that the crows feet pulled in the corner of his eyes and the way that his too-long gray hair framed his face.They both felt like teenagers in the cold backseat of a hatchback car. She rode him on the floor, which gave her rug-burn on her knees. They made love again in the pale-blue dawn of Christmas morning on the kitchen tile.
Annie felt alive again. It was the best gift she had ever received in decades. Her cheeks were tinsel red and every step she took she felt just a little younger.

He made her eggs in the morning and brewed her coffee. He put cream and sugar in her's without asking how she took it. He got it right.

She took him back to the diner and gave him free coffee and pie. He left a larger than usual tip. She smiled and winked and blushed when she walked away from his table. He watched her while he ate, like a schoolboy with a crush on a girl in the lunchroom. They passed flirtatious smiles and glances. Everything seemed just a little bit brighter.
It even snowed that day, washing the world into a clean white.

He took his motorcycle and went home.

A few days passed, and he didn't come around. Then it was weeks. Before she knew it, it was February and she hadn't seen him.
She took down the Christmas decorations after the New Year. She replaced the red and green bauble window-clings with over-sized candy hearts and cupids. She shut the irony out from her mind, because it made her ache. This year was no different from the ones before, she told herself. So, it didn't matter that she didn't have a Valentine. Didn't matter last year, wouldn't matter this year, either.

It was a lumpy gray day, and around six in the evening during dinner rush when Rick darkened the diner door. She heard his Harley grumble and thunder in the dirt parking lot  Her heart jumped a little in her throat. It is someone else-- she chastised. Someone with a similar bike. Nothing more. Couldn't be him. She didn't get her hopes up because she didn't want to be disappointed. She didn't look up when the door opened. She was making her rounds with the coffee pot. Don't look up, she threatened herself.

But the smell of his leather jacket and the feeling of his presence was unmistakable. He sat down at his usual stool at the counter and put a small black box on the counter top. He didn't say anything.
She jumped at the chance to fetch him coffee. She felt scared for some reason. Adrenaline was shooting through her veins like a sugar rush.

She set his coffee down and slid it to him.
In return, he slid her the velvet box, like some sort of a hostage exchange.

She froze. She could hear her manager, Tony, say something to her in the background. She didn't hear. She stared at the black box as if it was a hole leading to a netherworld. He nodded to it. Open it, his face seemed to say.
So, she did.

She immediately knew it was old. It was an antique, white gold lace ring with a touch of age around the edges. It was small, and only fit on her finger with a squeeze. The black diamond in the center was both expensive and remarkable. It caught every color in the spectrum and caused them to dance in the light. She had never seen, let alone owned, anything so beautiful and nice in her life.

He told her it once belonged to his grandmother, on his father's side. The diamond had come from somewhere in the desert of the Middle-East. It was hand made, and very old.

If she wanted, she could be his wife. And he'd take her anywhere in the world she'd like. He'd never treat her poorly, he promised. He only wanted to see her smile. If she declined, he would take the ring and never see him again. But, he wouldn't be upset. He would understand. But he couldn't stick around. Inwardly, she knew, he would be heartbroken.

"Oh, honey," she whispered with tears swelling in her eyes. She tore her apron off and dashed around the counter. She wrapped her arms around his neck. He was so tall, she could barely reach. She kissed him for her answer.
He swept her off her feet, and carried her as his bride out the door of the diner.

The stranger put her on the back of his motorcycle. Neither of them looked back.

They first rode to his trailer. It turned out he lived down the road. She had passed by his ramshackle home a dozen times without knowing. It was smaller than her's, and sadder. The overgrown lawn hid a dozen or so rusted out cars and trucks that had become houses to raccoon and opossums. They were greeted by a friendly German Sheppard. He made love to her a dozen times more.
And then they packed.

They drove to Vegas and married in a cheap, tacky chapel. But, they couldn't be happier or more perfect.

It was rumored that they traveled all through the mid-west, central, and south-west of the United States. Annie made her own postcards along the way. She wore Jackie-O sunglasses, polka-dotted scarf, and bright red lipstick in every shot. She posed on the back of his motorcycle.
She sent them to her friends and family, and signed them with a kiss mark.

A lot like a pin-up girl would do.