Fallen Arches

“Would you like honey for that?” she asks as she sets the mug of pale chamomile tea on the gold flecked Formica table in front of me, tag twisting at the end of a string dangling near the handle in a breeze from the open door. The smell of frying bacon weighs the air as dishes clatter and metal spatulas clang against the griddle. Curtains frame the diner’s front window with a cheerful pattern of bright lemons nestled in green leaves as the morning light builds. 

They reminded me of warmer days when Sarah and I would steal the lemons from the neighbor's yard and squeeze them into our hair creating a pulpy mess. Then we'd lay on towels in her dusty backyard, t-shirt sleeves pulled up to our shoulders with the hem tied in a knot over our bellybuttons and shorts hiked up as far as we dared, desperately trying to bronze our skin and achieve the sun-kissed highlights we saw in glossy magazines. I've long since given up my blond ambition for the no fuss ponytail that sticks out like a gray pompom on the back of my head. 

The waitress' dark hair is a neat bob with bangs that brush the tops of her eyebrows, but she is too young to look this tired so early in the day. Her dingy apron is tied loosely around her hips and the inner soles of her shoes are worn down. I'd recognize fallen arches anywhere, even without my glasses.

The booth upholstery is the same mustard color as the church hall chairs in my home town, the ones we would arrange in circles of seven, one for the teacher and six for children. Why they let me teach Sunday school I'll never know.

"No, thanks. I'm fine."