Free An Order of Coffee and Tears by Brian Spangler Page B

her chin in a quick nod before continuing on with her work.
    By the time some measure of normalcy had become more a part of our every day, the snows had receded like the flood waters I remember seeing as a kid. Gone were the large drifts that swallowed the smaller cars. Gone were the lawn chairs from the streets and curb that folks used to claim a parking spot as their own. Some interesting fights grew out of that practice.
    What were left were street-length rolls of blackened snow hugging the curbs, along with mountains of plowed storm remains in the supermarket parking lots. The only white snow that could be seen anywhere was the square patches of lawn that sat in front of row-homes and a few businesses. Angela’s Diner didn’t have a lawn to call its own, so I adopted the one in the front of my apartment: Ms. Potts’ house. But that, too, began to shrink as the weather warmed. And, by the time we entered into March, the edges of the snow melted to reveal the grasses that lay sleeping, waiting for spring to arrive. By then, I was itching for spring, too. I think we all were.
    I jumped when I heard the shattering of glass on the diner’s floor. The tumbling pieces of reminded me of the coffee pot and Detective Ramiz. Thoughts of pending spring weather disappeared as images of a dark figure in a fedora entered my mind. I could see Clark kneeling, and Ms. Potts standing at the booth, their expressions tortured and afraid.
    “Sorry about that, Gabby,” I heard, and saw Jarod Patreu, an ‘oops’ expression on his face, and an empty light bulb box in his hand.
    “Shame, it was new, too,” I answered back, smiling.
    “Slipped right out of the box. Last one, of course. Gonna have to go pick up more on my run to the hardware store.”
    “Jarod Patreu – what’d ya do now?” Ms. Potts exclaimed from behind me. “We pay you to fix what we can’t fix. We ain’t paying you to break things, too,” she complained, but I could hear the playfulness in her voice. She was fond of Jarod, and was having fun with him.
    “I’m sorry, Ms. Potts. Bulb slipped, just slipped right out of the box. I’ll replace it,” he answered, his voice sounded disappointed. I started to feel bad for him: Ms. Potts was teasing, and he had no idea.
    Ms. Potts walked around front with the broom in one hand, and passed me the dust pan. She was smiling by now, and said, “Baby, you ain’t gotta buy nothing. Heck, Gabby, here, dropped more dishes her first month than you done broke anything in all the years you been helping.”
    “How did I get dragged into this?” I jokingly complained, but knew I was only playing a supporting role in the conversation.
    Shallow relief settled on Jarod’s face as he stepped down off the chair. “You must have broke a lot of things, huh?” he said, smiling, and then added, “thank you, Ms. Potts. I’ve got to pick up a few more things tonight, anyway.”
    When we finished cleaning up the broken bulb, Jarod gathered some loose tools he’d brought out, and tucked them away in the yellowing tool bag he wore around his waist. Watching him, I had a memory of home and my parent’s garage. A workbench lined the far wall, black drawers, and a wood top. A back board stood behind the bench with pegs sticking out to hang tools on. Growing up, I learned how to fix things; a lot of things. That sounds odd for a girl, but I enjoyed it. And I was good at it.
    “You carry a lot of tools with you. Heavy?” I asked, as Jarod tucked a screwdriver away. He gave me a half-smile, then shuffled his feet before answering,
    “Yeah, a little. Need to have a variety, and all – time to time, stores need something different… that is, I’ve gotta lot of places to manage,” he answered in a shy voice with sweet eyes. Until now, I hadn’t really noticed his eyes. But, standing closer to him and talking a little about nothing at all, I realized I liked his eyes.
    Taller than me and a few years older, Jarod was the diner’s