Flash in the Pan at the Piedmont Grille

On a side note before we begin, Blogger ate half of my comments from my last post. So I'm sorry. I did answer them, although they are now in the ether somewhere.


I've decided to do a little something different on Friday. I'm still at the Piedmont Grille (because as a former restauranteur you never really give up the food). However, I'm adding a little sizzle.

I'm sure you've seen a cooking show or two on cable, maybe Julia Child reruns on PBS. The chef is standing at the stove holding a fry pan over the burner and they pour liquid into the pan. All of a sudden - poof - it goes up in flames. Well, the liquid is alcohol and what they're doing is flashing the pan. They want the taste of the alcohol, but not the alcohol itself so they're burning it off. (I wish you could have seen me in my glory years -- veal marsala was my specialty.)

Anyway, I don't know much about flash fiction, but I thought it would be fun to do here. And as Friday's are sort of fumbling days for me on the blog, I figured a little flash wouldn't hurt. Not so much an excerpt, but just a little something. And maybe not every Friday, but something different once in awhile.

So here goes. This is something I've had simmering on the back burner for awhile. It's waiting for REMEMBERING YOU to come back.

*******

“Who are you, man?" She backed away from the counter and looked at him thinking he might be the next Jeffrey Daimer. She glanced out the windows of the restaurant. Not a soul around. "You’re like some kind of upchucked LSD trip. You know where I lived. You know where I went to college. You don’t seem like the kind of Injun to ever move in those kinds of circles. How do you know so much about me?”

"I don’t," he said. His deep voice held an amused tone. "It’s your overactive imagination. I went to Brown. I majored in Native American History. Does Massasoit ring a bell? I also had friends who lived in Montpelier. I spent a couple of years doing research for a BIA language project that didn’t happen. I moved up and down the east coast a lot.”

She heard the timer go off in the kitchen. She went back, wrapped his order, and placed the bags near the cash register.

"Well, still, it’s kind of a little creepy, isn’t it?" She asked. "I mean, how many people in this town would know where Sakonnet, Rhode Island is, huh? How many would even know where Rhode Island is? I rest my case.” She rang up his order. He handed her a twenty, and when she gave him the change she dropped it into his hand not wanting to touch him.

He smiled. “You want to get a drink when you get out of here?”

Was he serious? Sure, he was good looking, probably the best looking guy she'd seen in a while, but still, a girl had to be careful. “How do I know you’re not some kind of crazy ax murderer, or something.”

He took a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her.

Allied Drilling. Laredo, TX Jim Truck, Foreman cell 1888-977-9977# 132

“I’m at the Colt," he said. "If I’m not at the bar, I’m in Room 214.” He grabbed the bags off the counter and tipped his black Stetson.

She watched him go and let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

******

Have a great weekend!