After sunrise the lines near the Krispy Kreme cash registers tatter. Those customers who do come in find solace in a few moments’ reflection out the south-facing window before dashing off again to their cars, to a day of toiling sameness.
Men of higher status than the shipyard workers dally each morning at the coffee counter, relaxing on swivel chairs, stirring steaming brew before an open newspaper, lifting a doughnut between thumb and middle finger.
I smooth my green smock, hefting a full pot, moving opposite a casual-suited, graying patron who glances over his half-moon glasses and raises an eyebrow.
“More coffee?” I say.
“Will it be any better than the last cup?” He snorts and turns a page.
I don’t know if he’s joking. “Uh, sure.”
“Oh, darlin’, bring that wonderful coffee over here next, will you?” Mr. Bentier, who goes to the same church Tim and I do, speaks at a high pitch, smooths his snowy hair as I finish pouring the first man’s black cup.
I remember to bring lots of cream for Mr. Bentier.
After I serve him he takes my free hand in both of his. Pats my wrist, smiles until I blush.
“All right, Mr. Bentier, let her go,” says Alice, breezing past us with a tray of fresh raised glazed for the front cupboard. “A customer over there’s waiting, Deanna.”
Grateful for her nod, her kind smile, and the release, I move past the man of black coffee and cool words to serve a woman on the end. The man makes eye contact. His stare doesn’t let up through my delivery of the woman’s plain cake and coffee with sugar.
“Let’s see that rock on your finger,” the man says.
I present my white-gold rings. The man inspects without pawing me.
Tim’s voice over the phone hinted secretive pleasure this last May after confirming he’d ordered the wedding set.
“What shape’s the diamond?” I asked. I’d told him I liked oval and marquee.
“Diamond shaped,” he said.
Five days before our wedding Tim held my hand and slid on the engagement ring. A quarter karat marquee. I inhaled, amazed, then ran to show my father.
The cool customer whistles so loud everyone turns to look. “I can pawn it for you,” he says. “Any time money gets too tight, or you’d just like to ditch the guy, let me know.” His appraisal switches from the ring to me.
“My husband and I are doing fine,” I tell him. “Today’s our ten week anniversary.”
“Incredible! Living on love.” The man’s attention returns to his newspaper.
“Love and doughnuts,” I say.
“Ha, ha!” His smile at the paper looks genuine. I’m off for more coffee. “Love and doughnuts,” he says, quiet, behind me.
Tim picks me up at 1:30 in the Mustang. Its dull gold paint job reflects wan sun. Today’s Tim’s day off. Less heat billows from pavement than on recent days, but humidity creeps under my white pants and smock.
“I fixed the brakes,” he says.
“I can drive it now?”
He nods. “This’ll be your car.”
I reach to pat his arm. “We may not eat much ever, but at least I can get to work.”
Tina Painter steps from her porch when we reach our mobile home. “My daddy,” she says. “He’s in the hospital. Mama’s supposed to call or send someone to get me.”
“We’ll take you,” I say. Tim nods. I run in to change and use the bathroom before we speed to the ancient healthcare building downtown.
