Alpha

         Gravel crunched beneath the thick sole of his boots as he stepped down from the metal beast still rumbling between his legs. Smoldering. The fine layer of dust settling against the thin veneer of sweat on exposed skin shimmered in the waning sunlight. Kicking the stand into place, he walked away from his motorcycle towards the hum of American oldies—the likes a Maroon Five or a Justin Timberlake

         It had been a very, very long time since he’d been here last. So long, in fact, that he wasn’t even sure if she’d still be here. Only one way to find out.

         Acrid smoke seemed to scuttle out of the way to let him pass, then rush back in to fill the space behind him like whispering call girls with a secret. The smoke burnt his eyes a little bit, tickling the inside of his lungs and making it hard to see. Still, he left the dark lenses of his aviators in place, striding with heavy steps past the waitress nearly spilling out of her strapless top as she poured the coffee. It was just too hot.

         Coming to the counter he eased onto the stool, eyes on the girl with the unruly dark brown curls yelling to the cooks—if you could call them that—in the back. Well, she wasn’t a girl anymore. Retying her grease splotched apron she disappeared through the swinging gray doors, and when she returned she juggled a few plates of more grease on grease—wartime rations.

         The waitress he’d passed on the way in surfaced behind him, pulling her neckline up and her hemline down.

         “Table 5,” said the girl—or perhaps young woman—with the curly hair. Finally turning towards him, “What can I get for you?” she asked.

         “Gabrielle,” he called softly, and through the reflection in his eyes Gabrielle watched realization and recognition materialize out of the thick fog of burning fats and cigarette smoke.

         “Jean?” Less than an instant, she rushed around the counter. “I don’t believe it!”

         That was understandable, considered Jean. He quite nearly didn’t believe it himself—that he would ever sit here again, see her again. But he knew the question that would come next. And he dreaded it.

         “Where’s Kirsten? Is she here with you too?” Gabrielle quizzed, reaching out to touch him as if she tested to see if he were real.

         “She’s dead,” he replied. Flat.

***This is an excerpt from a novel. If there's any interest, I'll post the first chapter.***