Nel's Diner

A Flash Fiction Story

Donna had to know the truth.

She waited in a booth in the back. It was a shadowy corner in Nel’s Diner. The lighting in this section was always dim. And now, with dusk approaching, it was even darker than usual. Especially compared to the bright lights in the rest of the diner. Each pendant or recessed fixture turned up to its highest settings. Donna chose this spot so that she would not be seen when Clay walked in. Yet, she could see who he walked in with. She didn’t know the new flavor’s name, but it didn’t matter. Donna was sure it was going to be someone.

Betsy, who had been a waitress at Nel’s for as long as Donna could remember, never forgot about Donna sitting back there. After attending to other customers: taking orders, dropping off plates, or refilling glasses, she arrived once again at Donna’s booth holding a stainless steel coffee carafe in one hand. Betsy was probably once attractive in her skin-tight cutoff jean shorts and shiny nylons. Now she was just a middle-aged woman past her prime trying to hold on to the young woman she once was. Her black apron was tied too low and too tight in an attempt to accentuate her hips. In the pockets, a notepad, pen, and a couple of straws peeked out. Her too-black-to-be-natural hair was pulled back into a tight bun. And she traded color contact lenses for bifocals.

“Want a refill, hon?” Betsy said in a clipped Southern drawl.

The cash register up front rang out as people paid for their dinners. The smell of burgers sizzling and onions frying settled like a greasy clump in Donna’s throat. The longer she waited, the more stuck it felt. She glanced at the wall clock hanging over the drink station. Clay should be making his appearance soon. His shift at 89.9 FM KWMP was just about over, and he would stop for something to eat. He always did. Donna didn’t cook on Thursday evenings. She was usually at book club. However, last week, she found a woman’s broken bracelet chain in his jeans pocket.

Donna didn’t wear bracelets. They got in the way of her job as an ER nurse.

She nodded her head, and Betsy topped off the coffee cup. She gave Donna a sympathetic smile that seemed to convey pity. Then with a slight shake of her head, she moved off to finish her rounds.

What the hell? What was this washed-up woman, who most likely worked in this same diner since high school, not telling her?

Were Clay’s transgressions so well known? So that all the times he and Donna came here on Sundays for breakfast, everyone laughed behind her back?

Donna glanced at the unfolded paper napkin in the booth next to her. It fluttered briefly from the diner’s air conditioner. The knot in the pit of her stomach shifted to an uncontrollable twitch. The three cups of coffee didn’t calm her nerves. Maybe she should have stopped by a liquor store first.

Then, as if to placate Donna’s anxiety, the front glass door to Nel’s opened, accompanied by the roar of a city bus flying by. Clay strode in wearing his usual Levi’s 510’s, slung loose on his lean frame, and a long-sleeved Bass shirt. To top off the ensemble, he had on his signature white Adidas sneakers and white and gold Nike baseball cap.

And he was alone.

Donna almost leapt from the booth to run across the space to hug him. Maybe she was wrong about the bracelet. Maybe he picked it up at the station and meant to turn it in. Maybe she shouldn’t have assumed the worst. It’s not like she hadn’t ever found an interesting item and put it in her pocket or purse.

Except the door opened again. This time with only the wind as an accompaniment. Clay turned back to face the door, then put his arm around the young woman who walked in.

Donna hated to admit it. . .the girl was gorgeous. She was tall and willowy and wore a red-orange jumpsuit with a wide black belt and black wedge boots that made it possible for her to match Clay’s six-foot height. She had multiple piercings in her ears, though it was her prominent silver hoop earrings that stood out. They glittered in the pendant light hanging above the cash register. Her wavy black hair swung past her slim shoulders. Donna wasn’t sure if she could say if she ever looked that good; not to say that she hadn’t been known to turn a head or two in her time.

Putting all that aside, Donna might have cried if the rage inside her hadn’t burned like scalding oil boiling over. It took everything she had not to climb over the table, scattering dishes and cups onto the floor, to get to the front of the diner and scratch Clay’s eyes out.

Instead, Donna’s hand reached under the napkin next to her, fingertips caressing the cool metal of the Beretta 418 to settle her fury.

She could wait.

She was hoping she wouldn’t have to use the small gun, but wishes didn’t always come true, now did they?

©️ 2025 Francelia Belton. All rights reserved.