God damn this humidity. My eyes fixate on the rickety fan placed off center on my bedrooms ceiling.

It seemed that with each turn the fan became aggressively louder to the point where it almost was screaming at me to get out of bed. I kicked at the covers that lay in a pool at my feet and I rubbed my palms first on my forehead, and then along my sweaty, naked thighs. If I closed my eyes, my room would spin. If I opened my eyes, the room still spun it was an awfully wicked lose-lose scenario. My breath tasted like stale liquor and cigarettes, and the mere thought of how much I consumed of both made my stomach feel extremely unsettled. Having a hangover was usually terrible enough, but lying in a hot bed while experiencing room spins seemed to make the situation exceptionally worse. I closed my eyes for what seemed like a brief second, but the shrill of my alarm clock had other ideas. Work. I had slept for about three hours, possibly four. The ability of my buildings pipes to only provide me with freezing cold water within the first five minutes of a shower of any temperature proved rather useful this morning. Immediate goose bumps form on my skin as I run my hands through my knotted hair. I pour an excessive amount of shampoo in my hands to strip away the stench of the previous evening; the taste of stale liquor remained in my mouth, regardless of the water I gargled and spat. My thoughts return - as they usually do in the shower, to the nights shenanigans. I seemed to have spent a delirious time that evening dancing with a blonde haired girl who drunkenly grabbed my thighs and my breasts. If a man had done these things, I would have swung for his nose. Instead, being groped by another woman seemed way less threatening and a lot more sexual. I wondered if her breath tasted like stale liquor and cigarettes this morning, too. Perhaps she was in the shower, mentally preparing herself for a shift at her shitty job. I dont even remember her namedid we even introduce ourselves? I doubt we traded formalities. No, I believe I was dancing alone when her hands went right for my thighs and my hips as we swayed to the distorted club music. The rhythmic swaying consumes my thoughts as I brush my hair and as I dress for work. On the bus I think about how many drunken strangers have danced together and how often I have been one of those drunken strangers. I think about how odd it is to be completely inebriated and choose to be so plainly intimate with a person I may not be even slightly attracted to when sober. How many people would choose me when sober? How many people would I choose sober? Would I let that girl touch my thighs and my hips and my breasts so casually in any other situation? As I signal for my stop, I come to the conclusion that I should probably cut down on drinking (a promise Ive made for the fourth time this month). Maybe I should stop asking myself so many damn questions, too. I lean against a stool; head in hands as I watch Marcia proceed to scrub down the diners empty counter. All Im saying is, I dont know how you go to that club on a Tuesday night! And its so hot, and theres so many people She paused. And you dont know what any of them are carrying. What?

You knowdiseases. Youre crazy. Marcia grins. You got that right. Marcia is the gangliest person I have ever met. She is taller than any man I have ever slept with and she is never without a cigarette between her index and middle fingers. Her long, extension-filled hair is consistently placed high atop her head, slightly positioned to the left, in a ponytail. She takes a long drag of her cigarette, and I watch as the smoke floats above our heads, lingering in the humidity. I tell Marcia my club exploits every morning after, sometimes leaving out a carnal fact or two. Marcia is a god-fearing twenty-five year old woman who proudly owns a gun, which is, of course, placed next to her Bible in her nightstand. I sometimes wish I could be like her, without the emotional attachment to Jesus. She taps her long manicured fingers on the counter. The diner is considerably slow for an early Wednesday morning, although the general drought it had been experiencing lately could be attributed a few factors: nobody wanted to drink hot coffee in this weather and, of course, there was the circumstance surrounding the opening of a chain coffee franchise across the street. I have worked at Laceys Diner for almost three years now. Every morning before I start my shift I hear my mothers nagging voice in my head, asking me why I didnt finish my law degree and reprimanding me for working in such a terrible shithole (her phrasing, not mine). Laceys was owned and operated by Lacey herself, a middle-aged mother of five, though she rarely made an appearance at the diner. Lacey was a bit of an elusive entity, but more so an alcoholic, and would often put Marcia in charge. Her husband, Larry, was a mechanic, though rumour often speculated that Larry also dealt large quantities of psychedelic drugs to high school kids and local burnouts alike. Laceys was known for three things: the $10 breakfast special, raspberry-blueberry pie and peach cobbler, all of which were local favourites. I would even admit on my worst days that the pie and cobbler were pretty damn good, though breakfast was never my thing. The diner was small enough to staff just four people: Marcia, myself, our gangly and pimpled teenage dishwasher Michael and our cook: a stocky thirty-year-old named Joe. Joe was a strange man; I dont think Ive ever heard him speak more than a total of five sentences to anyone the three years Ive been here. I think he was terrified of women, but more so of Marcia because of her height. Marcia towered over pretty much everybody, Joe especially. Joe could bake a mean pie, though. On slow mornings such as this one, he would occupy a booth to himself, working for hours on newspaper crossword puzzles until customers arrived. The diner itself was small and cramped with smoke-stained homemade curtains lining the windows next to its cracked leather booths. Its walls were painted a robin-egg blue colour, though due to the absence of indoor smoking by-laws, the walls had begun to fade into stale yellow that matched the curtains. Laceys almost always smelled like strong coffee and cigarette smoke, matching the smell of most of its patrons. A single electric

fan with streamers attached to its cage sat on the counter, blowing a weak stream of air. Today it seemed that the fan was especially unforgiving, I close my eyes again, briefly, only to be alarmed by a lively yelp. Whoa, wait, turn it up. I snap to attention and Marcia gestures toward the small portable television mounted behind the counter. I reach toward the remote on the counter and I increase the volume, the reporters voice booming through the speakers. was a scene last night of a stabbing at approximately 3 am. The victim, identified by witnesses as Laura Hunter, was a student at the University of Oklahoma. Witnesses say she was here visiting friends Footage of the crime scene flashes by. Hey, isnt that the place you- Shh. As the reporter drones on, a rather cheerful photo of the victim is splashed across the screen. Jesus Christ. My heart leapt into my throat. What were the goddamn chances? ~ I know her. What? How? I stood stock-still, mouth agape, eyes glued to the television that has now moved on to another story. Are you okay? How do you know her? Isnt she from out of- Yeah yeah. And thats the place you usually dance at, ri- Yeah. Wow. I ease back onto the stool. I feel faint, clammy and unnerved. I can also feel Marcias curious stare. I take a breath and I tell her about the dancing, leaving out the groping. How can you be sure its her, though? It couldve been anyone. Hell, I could probably pass for her. No, its her. I know it. You dont forget a face like that. Marcia makes her way to the stool next to me, flicking her cigarette into a glass ashtray and resting her chin in her hand. We sit in silence for a while. Im afraid that if I speak Ill puke. The familiar chime of the bell attached to the unsound front door rings. I glance

at my watch. 8:30 and the regulars have arrived, right on time. I watch as Joe characteristically leaps from his booth and scurries into the kitchen. How about you sit this one out? Marcia leans towards me and sympathetically pats my knee. Im sure I can handle it. No, no, its okay. Ill be fine. I had three overdue bills and a nicotine habit to support, after all. Well only if youre sure. Im sure, Im sure. Just shaken, sall. Marcia winks at me. Well alright then. Lets percolate some coffee, put up with some bullshit and flirt our way through another shift. ~ There are five 8:30 regulars who will appear, without fail, every damn day. They have been coming in for ten years and they all order the same thing: black coffees and our breakfast special that consists of scrambled eggs, two pieces of toast, sausage, bacon and grits. Chris, Leo, Steve, John and Mr. Harrison squeeze into the same booth every morning, smoke and chat and wait for their meals. Marcia says that she first served them when she first started working at the diner at the age of fifteen and hasnt taken a single order from them since. By 9:40, without fail, we serve them (Joe is damn quick on the grill).