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Guidelines 
 

LOVE AT THE WAFFLE SHACK 
by
Deborah Wallace

Breathe.

Jane picked up the freshest pot of coffee, and walked into the dining area.

Both Oliver and his friend studied the menu, so she had a chance to wipe her sweaty hand before she reached the table. “Good morning, gentlemen.” She tried to sound upbeat and carefree, hovering the pot over Oliver’s cup. “Coffee?”

When he looked up from the menu, the breakfast crowd receded into a distant hum. When he opened his mouth, the entire world seemed to pause in anticipation. “You again,” he said. “I thought I made it clear I wanted somebody else’s table."

She moved the pot closer. "Your cup or your lap?"

"I'm beginning to think nobody’s listening to me upstairs,” he said to his friend. “No matter what time I come in here—there she is."

"Maybe nobody upstairs likes you," Jane suggested.

Sighing, he turned his cup upright and watched her pour. "I trust this is a fresh pot.”

"Well, it’s hot, black and wet. Let your imagination take it from there.”

Oliver feigned shock. “What if I told you Tom here is a reporter with The News? And he has a tape recorder in his shirt pocket?”

She leaned toward Tom’s shirt pocket. “Care for a free cup?”

“Most definitely.”

"I believe that’s called a bribe, Tom.” Oliver shook his head as he poured cream into his cup. “Have you no scruples? I don't think I'll ever tip again.”

"Here's a tip,” said Jane. "Order something or get out."

Oliver’s black eyes danced. His ripe lips bit back a smile. "That didn’t sound like a tip. As a matter of fact, that could almost be construed as a threat. Don’t you think so, Tom?”

His friend shrugged behind the menu. “I’m on the fence.”

“Seems to me," said Oliver, stirring his coffee while holding Jane’s gaze, "a tip would be a bit of wisdom I'd remember the rest of my life. And whenever it crossed my mind, I'd think of the one who passed it on to me. In this case, it would go something like, 'Ah yes, Jane at Joe's Waffle Shack said that.' See how it works?"

Her name just passed through his lips. As always, it sounded like the contented moan of a tenor sax on an autumn breeze.

“How's this,” she said. “Don’t annoy the person who handles your food."

“Now there’s a useful tip!” Tom raised his cup in salute. "How are the waffles today?"

"Same as they ever are,” she replied. “Round with square pits all over them."

Tom burst into laughter.

“Don’t encourage her. She’ll only get worse.” Oliver settled back, crossing his arms. “And if she does, I won’t share my news.”

Jane pretended to pout.

“All right, if you insist.” He cleared his throat. “I won two tickets to the jazz festival Saturday night.”

She fidgeted, trying to hide the fact she so wanted to go to that festival. “That’s … nice.”

“See the connection?”

She searched his eyes. “What connection?”

“You like jazz. I have tickets.”

“How do you know I like jazz?”

“Small town. Word gets around.” He flashed that brilliant smile.  “Especially when a person asks.”

She stared, stunned silent.

He fingered the corner of his menu, his voice a little shaky. “Will you consider going with me?"

Her heart thumped.

"It’s supposed to be warm and clear,” he added. “We could grab a bite to eat and dine beneath the stars."

“I ...” Her sweaty grip slid up on the coffee pot handle. “I think that would be enjoyable.”

“You do?” He straightened. “I mean, great! Yeah, I’ll, I’ll pick you up! Six! Is six good? Or seven? Maybe seven’s better?”

“No, six is fine.” She took out her pen. “You’ll need directions to my—”

"I know where you live, Jane."

There it was again. Her name, passing through his lips.

“Oh, okay then, I’ll … I’ll be back with your order.”

“Great!” Oliver called as she floated toward the kitchen. “Can’t wait to see what we're having!”

© 2008 Deborah Wallace