For most of the year, Diner 66 is frequented almost entirely by regulars. It\u2019s in the early fall that the reporter first shows up, the last week of September, just as the leaves begin to turn and the early-bird tourists infiltrate the restaurant on their way north. That\u2019s probably why no one pays him any mind. He seems to float in on the breeze with the others. The out-of-towners don\u2019t know the regulars from the tourists, and the regulars merely assumed he\u2019d leave with the rest of the flock, but he continues to frequent their establishment into late October.<\/p>\n
He\u2019s impeccably dressed in his tan trench coat and black leather gloves, the fedora atop his head and the spiral notepad in hand like a journalist from a black-and-white movie of days past. The fifties themed diner seems to swallow him up that way. His outdated dress and odd mannerisms make the locals feel more out of place than he seems to be, despite his anomalous presence. <\/p>\n
After most of the through traffic has made its way north and back south again, Clay, like the rest of the locals who frequent Diner 66, can\u2019t help but take notice of him. He spends long hours hopping from table to table, countertop stool to window seat. He always spends money\u2013powdered donuts and vanilla cappuccinos, or bear claws and hot chocolate\u2013and he tips well. Well enough, anyway, for the staff to turn a blind eye to his constantly pestering the customers, though they have a tendency to play along with his often absurd interview questions regardless.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s not that Clay has any particular interest in eavesdropping, but it\u2019s hard not to pick up the man\u2019s smooth, unfamiliar voice, like the low hum of a cello cutting through the clanking dishes and quiet laughter of the other patrons\u2019 conversations. Even his stride sets him apart. His movements are fluid and conducted with unusual gaiety as he slides into the burgundy faux-leather booth near the door. There\u2019s something about it that bugs Clay. The man always seems like he\u2019s half-a-second from erupting into emasculating giggles.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ll start with an easy one, shall we?\u201d The reporter asks the woman across from him with a wide smile, pen poised over his notepad. \u201cWould you rather take a trip to the beach, or go skiing?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, the beach, definitely,\u201d Cindy Hoffman replies instantly, smoothing her hair back in a way that reminds Clay of a preening bird. \u201cI hate being stuck in the cold all winter.\u201d<\/p>\n
He hums sympathetically, his attention undivided as he scribbles detailed notes. When he seems satisfied with the transcription, he turns to Cindy\u2019s husband, his eyes briefly flitting to the uneaten donut on his plate.<\/p>\n
\u201cI suppose a more difficult question is in order, then. If you don\u2019t mind, sir?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot at all.\u201d Carl sounds just as pleased to be considered important enough for the article.<\/p>\n
\u201cExcellent! Well, then, let\u2019s see here\u2026 would you rather save a loved one\u2019s life from cancer, or win the lottery?\u201d<\/p>\n
Carl catches Cindy\u2019s look, but he still asks, \u201cWhich loved one?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI couldn\u2019t say.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, no contest, then.\u201d Carl forcefully slaps a meaty palm down on the table, rattling the silverware. \u201cThe first one.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cInteresting. Yes, good choice, I should think\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
Clay, watching discreetly from the breakfast bar, can\u2019t help but roll his eyes. Everyone is completely infatuated with the man. It\u2019s part of the dilemma of living in a small town like this one\u2013everyone\u2019s starved for attention. There\u2019s never been anything or anyone in North Park worth making the papers until he showed up. Now, everyone seems to be of the utmost interest and all too happy to oblige this stranger\u2019s odd solicitations, so much so that his interviewees have yet to ask him what it is, exactly, he\u2019s writing about. Maybe they\u2019re afraid the story won\u2019t be as grand and emotionally compelling as they hoped. Clay thinks they\u2019d probably be right. <\/p>\n
When Carl and Cindy stand to leave after pleasantries and handshakes are exchanged, the reporter remains behind, his wrist seizing over the paper below like an inspired artist. Then he puts the pen down on the table, drawing himself up with a deep inhalation. His eyes once again return to the donut left on Carl\u2019s plate. He seems to be considering it until he notices Cindy\u2019s lipstick is smudged on the edge of her Coke glass. The reporter picks it up and holds it to the light as if expecting to find flakes of gold in her cheap make-up. Maybe he does. The pen is back in his grasping fingers in an instant.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat the hell\u2019s this guy think he is now? A scientist?\u201d Clay mutters, turning back to his coffee. The clatter of the saucer when he sets the cup down belies his frustration.<\/p>\n
From his right, Paige laughs under her breath. \u201cWhat\u2019s so wrong with that? He\u2019s just doing his job.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat kind of reporter asks such ridiculous questions?\u201d<\/p>\n
She shrugs. \u201cMaybe it\u2019s an editorial.\u201d<\/p>\n
Editorial, Clay repeats the word in his head. Editorial my ass, he thinks. What could possibly be so important about whether Collin wants a dog or a cat, or if Ms. McGruder would rather win a new car than the Pulitzer Prize? What\u2019s so important about that? He scowls at the yellow stripes of the countertop. That kind of smart-ass questioning is just how people like that reporter, people that think they\u2019re smarter than everyone else, get their kicks.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you sure you\u2019re not just jealous?\u201d Paige tries not to smile at the grumpy look on his face. \u201cIf you want to do an interview, you could just go ask him, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n
Clay gives her an impatient sidelong glance. \u201cWhy the hell would I want to do that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSounds like fun to me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, I bet it does.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, sweet love of mine,\u201d Paige sighs theatrically, grabbing the last half of her bagel and dropping a few bills beside her plate. \u201cI love it when you insult me. See you after work?\u201d<\/p>\n
Clay gives her an exasperated look, but she still wins a small smile from him, at least.<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah. After work,\u201d he agrees, giving her a chaste kiss. He watches her exit, the little silver bell atop the door announcing her departure, and then returns his attention to the reporter.<\/p>\n
He\u2019s eating the donut. The syrupy glaze clings to the fingers of his leather gloves, and when the pastry is gone, he looks down at his hand and blinks confusedly at it, as if he genuinely hadn\u2019t expected the sugar to stick to him. Then he dunks his sticky fingers into Carl\u2019s water glass and wipes it on his coat.<\/p>\n
That\u2019s it, Clay thinks, getting up from his seat. He snatches his keys and shoves his EpiPen into his pocket with his wallet. There must be something wrong with this guy, what with his weird mannerisms and strange questions, and if that\u2019s the case, it\u2019s the townspeople\u2019s responsibility to investigate. This stranger\u2019s been here for almost a month and not a single person can even say where he lives. For all he knows, this man might be dangerous.
\n
\nClay slides into the booth, setting his coffee cup on the table to stick out his hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cClay.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJack,\u201d the man smiles widely. His damp fingers are unpleasantly cold.<\/p>\n
There\u2019s an extended silence as Clay tries to figure out an angle. Jack, meanwhile, only continues to smile in that gleeful way, like a man about to leave on a long vacation. Eventually, his gaze once again drifts down to the tabletop, jumping from left over morsel to left over morsel, presumably in search of something to eat. The grin never leaves his face, though. It\u2019s only his eyes that move.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you writing about?\u201d Clay asks at last, if only to get the reporter to stop looking a cat in a field of mice.<\/p>\n
But Jack just flaps a hand at him. \u201cOh, you know. This and that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou ask awfully strange questions, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n
There\u2019s a piece of pancake on Cindy\u2019s plate, sodden with syrup. Jack eyes it for only a moment before snatching it up. <\/p>\n
\u201cI love sweets,\u201d he explains at the other man\u2019s incredulous look. \u201cCan\u2019t resist them. What about you, Clay? Do you like dessert?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t sit here to talk about dessert.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jack\u2019s smile grows. \u201cAn interview, then?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want one of your ludicrous interviews either.\u201d Clay rolls his tongue behind his teeth agitatedly. \u201cI want to know what you\u2019re doing here. In my town.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIs that so\u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n
At last, the expression on Jack\u2019s face changes into something other than blithe indifference. He leans forward with his elbows on the table, chin resting in his hands. His head is cocked slightly in a way that reminds Clay of a young lady enamored with her date, and he can\u2019t help but find it unnerving. Jack doesn\u2019t seem to notice, however; he\u2019s studying Clay\u2019s face. His eyes are glittering with suppressed humor. The smile just barely tugging up the corners of his mouth is one a mother might give a child whose put all his clothes on backwards.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, Clay,\u201d Jack breaks the silence, snapping back into his normal posture so abruptly, like his joints are spring loaded, that Clay jumps. His knees hit the underside of the table and rattle the dishes. \u201cI must be honest with you. I think you already know the answer to your own inquiry.\u201d<\/p>\n
He waits, but Jack apparently needs prompting. \u201cWhich is?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m here to ask questions.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah,\u201d Clay draws out the word. \u201cBut what for?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnswers.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnswers to what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy, questions, of course!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut…\u201d he stops himself. The look on Jack\u2019s face is infuriatingly smug. Clay stands stiffly, leaving his unfinished coffee settled between plates, his jaw flexed in irritation. \u201cScrew you, buddy.\u201d<\/p>\n
He drops the other half of the check over Paige\u2019s bills and leaves without another word. Jack\u2019s eyes are on him the whole way out, but he doesn\u2019t turn to look.<\/p>\n
Who has time for that kind of nonsense?<\/p>\n
Clay avoids the diner for two weeks. The reporter makes him distinctly uncomfortable in a way that he can\u2019t quite describe. No man smiles that much, he thinks resolutely, unless he\u2019s got that much to smile about, and whatever it is that\u2019s got Jack so happy, Clay doesn\u2019t want any part of it. Especially not after being caught in one of his idiotic games.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s baffling to him that there are so many others who continue to willingly subject themselves to Jack\u2019s laughable line of questioning, though, but people do. He catches snippets of conversations throughout town and at work, and despite his desertion of the diner, Paige continues to drink coffee there while she writes. When they find each other after work, she informs him that Jack is still there doing much the same thing.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know why you\u2019re being such a baby about this,\u201d she teases him over dinner, but Clay stubbornly refuses to go back.<\/p>\n
\u201cI just don\u2019t like the guy. There\u2019s something off about him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, yeah,\u201d Paige agrees, \u201cbut he\u2019s not going to jump across the diner and kill you or anything. I just don\u2019t see what the problem is.\u201d<\/p>\n
It\u2019s a matter of principle, really. There\u2019s just something wrong about a man wandering into town and bugging the locals, asking questions for his own gain and offering nothing in return. It doesn\u2019t seem fair. Besides, even if Jack won\u2019t spill the beans, Clay is more than certain that whatever he\u2019s writing about is as empty-headed as the man doing the writing, so the fact that all these people are lining up to be a part of it is just plain disturbing. Surely Jack will leave soon anyway.<\/p>\n
At the end of the second week, however, something else begins to bother him. He\u2019d listened to Jack\u2019s inane questions for nearly three weeks before confronting him. Of course he\u2019d remember a few conversations. So, it\u2019s strange, he thinks, when Collin gets a cat, but perhaps Jack\u2019s question put the idea in his head. That wouldn\u2019t explain Ms. McGruder\u2019s winning a car in a magazine sweepstakes, though, or Cindy\u2019s free airline tickets to Florida, or Carl\u2019s mother\u2019s cancer scare that turned out to be a benign lump.<\/p>\n
There are others, too. His neighbor loses his great grandfather\u2019s lighter but finds a thousand dollars sewn into his mattress while searching for it. Paige\u2019s best friend drops twenty pounds in ten days. Oddities begin to pile up, and perhaps it\u2019s because Clay spent so long eavesdropping on the interviews that he\u2019s the only one that puts it together. Now, if only he could figure out what it is, exactly, that he\u2019s put together.<\/p>\n
On Monday morning, Clay returns to the diner. He\u2019s not entirely sure what he\u2019s come here to ask, let alone how he\u2019s going to ask it, but the point is that there\u2019s something that needs to be asked and somebody has to do the asking. Besides, he figures, Jack loves questions. Maybe he\u2019ll like answering them too.<\/p>\n
He finds Jack engaged in conversation at the back of the diner. The woman across from him is answering a question, something about jail or a coma. There\u2019s a plate full of powdered raspberry donuts in front of him that he\u2019s casually demolishing at a speed normally reserved for competitive eating. One of the donuts is leaking jelly, and this one, he picks up, squeezing it slightly and watching the bright red, sugary substance gather atop it like a kid watching Santa come down the chimney. He\u2019s so intensely focused on the food that he evidently forgets the woman across the table until she remarks on the odd behavior.<\/p>\n
\u201cI love sweets,\u201d Jack says with that broad smile. \u201cCan\u2019t resist them. What about you, Becca? Do you like dessert?\u201d<\/p>\n
Clay waits for them to finish up the interview. In the meantime, he pays for half-a-dozen strawberry croissants and two cups of hot chocolate, carefully balancing the platter of pastries on his wrist as he approaches the booth once Becca makes her way out. He slides the plate over the previous, now empty, one.<\/p>\n
He\u2019s obviously made the right choice. Jack wiggles his fingers delightedly.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat a pleasant surprise!\u201d He announces, clearly giddy, and immediately begins tearing into the first pastry. \u201cClay, to what do I owe the pleasure?\u201d<\/p>\n
He tries to make himself feel as sure as he sounds. \u201cI want to know how you\u2019re doing this.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDoing what?\u201d<\/p>\n
Clay inhales deeply. His fingers drum pensively against the table.<\/p>\n
\u201cLook,\u201d he says with the exhale, \u201cI can\u2019t help but notice that these questions of yours\u2013that the answers matter.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, of course they matter,\u201d Jack says patiently. \u201cWhy would I ask them if they didn\u2019t?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut I don\u2019t understand.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNeither do I. That\u2019s why I\u2019m the one asking the questions.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut, you,\u201d Clay rubs his hands over his face, \u201chow is it that when you ask someone something, the way they answer the question actually happens?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou mean that their choice results in its own fruition.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d Clay affirms, perhaps a bit exasperatedly.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh. Oh, I see.\u201d The bell signaling an order is ready chimes loudly in the emptying diner. Jack, momentarily distracted, pauses with his mouth open. When he sees the plate of roast beef up on the metal counter separating the kitchen, he turns back to Clay, his usual smile in place. \u201cYes. That\u2019s me.\u201d<\/p>\n
They spend a moment in contemplative silence. Jack\u2019s expression remains frozen in place as his hand begins to slide toward another pastry, as if he doesn\u2019t realize it\u2019s happening. The inappropriateness of it jars Clay back into the situation.
\nWhen he speaks, it\u2019s clear his sensibilities have been offended.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s impossible.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe for you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d Clay says firmly. \u201cNo one can do that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jack tuts disapprovingly. \u201cIt sounds like you\u2019ve made a lot of assumptions.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s impossible,\u201d he repeats, getting annoyed, but Jack merely tips his head toward the front of the diner. Clay hesitantly peeks around the booth, neck craned to see out the glass door and catch a glimpse of the sudden commotion out front.<\/p>\n
Becca\u2019s hands are cuffed behind her back. When Clay numbly slides back into his seat, he finds Jack looking quite pleased with himself.<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay,\u201d Clay says shakily. \u201cOkay. Okay.\u201d And then, after a moment more, \u201cWhat the hell are you?\u201d<\/p>\n
His earlier hopes are apparently for naught. Jack does not like to answer questions except with more questions.<\/p>\n
\u201cWould you rather know that,\u201d he begins while Clay\u2019s heart sinks into his stomach with dread, \u201cor be able to choose the means of your own death?\u201d<\/p>\n
The word \u201cdeath\u201d coming out of this thing’s powdered sugar covered mouth is utterly disquieting. Everything about Jack, in fact, is disquieting. His brown eyes reflect his jubilant disposition. There\u2019s stubble along his jaw. A pink tinge on his cheeks affirms his constant amusement, and his hair, dark shades of mahogany slicked back with pomade, contrasts all of his mannerisms in a way that is roguishly charming. He looks utterly human.<\/p>\n
He\u2019s not.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat if I don\u2019t answer?\u201d Clay ventures, heavily disliking the way his voice quivers.<\/p>\n
Jack\u2019s body twitches to life suddenly. His elbows snap to his sides and his shoulders roll back in an instant. Clay\u2019s knees hit the edge of the table again, exactly reminiscent of their first conversation.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen I\u2019ll answer for you.\u201d<\/p>\n
There\u2019s no way Clay\u2019s about to let that happen. Besides, in this case, the question is an easy one. Nobody ever gets to choose the means of his death, anyway. It sounds more like a curse than a blessing.<\/p>\n
\u201cI want to know the answer,\u201d Clay finally responds. Jack\u2019s face lights up excitedly.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, good! I was hoping you\u2019d pick that one,\u201d he trills. \u201cAlright, Clay, the truth is that I\u2019m a scientist. An observer of sorts.\u201d He pauses here to sip his hot chocolate and, finding the flavor too pleasing to resist, he finishes the cup in one swig. \u201cLong story short, I\u2019m conducting an experiment to learn about human behavior. I ask a question, then I observe both realities in order to see how reliably a human can judge itself.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cObserve both realities?\u201d Clay repeats, ignoring the rest of the odd wording. He wishes Paige were here. This is far more her field than his.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s right. I watch the reality of this alternative, and the reality in which the other alternative happened instead. Some of you know yourselves quite well. Others. Well.\u201d His eyes slide briefly to the door. Becca is long gone.<\/p>\n
Okay, Clay thinks, clinging to the one word mantra. Okay. Okay.<\/p>\n
What does all this mean?<\/p>\n
Distractedly, he zeroes in on the details of Jack\u2019s face. He\u2019s got crow\u2019s feet from smiling so much. The guy probably shops at Banana Republic for God\u2019s sake.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, hypothetically,\u201d the words come slowly, \u201cif you asked me a question, and I answered it, you could tell me what would\u2019ve happened if I\u2019d made the other choice.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cExactly.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd a few weeks ago, when Sandra said she\u2019d rather win a million dollars than be able to fly anywhere for free…\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTomorrow,\u201d Jack confirms cheerfully. \u201cShe found a lottery ticket in her gutter this morning.\u201d<\/p>\n
A million dollars. That\u2019s a lot of money. Hell, Carl could\u2019ve won the whole jackpot if he\u2019d been more heartless. And then there\u2019s his neighbor with the thousand dollars, and Ms. McGruder with her new car.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, if I asked you to ask me a question \u2013\u201c<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, no, no, no, no,\u201d Jack interrupts emphatically, his finger wagging. \u201cThat wouldn\u2019t be very scientific at all. It only works if I choose the questions.\u201d<\/p>\n
Of course that would be the case, Clay realizes. Otherwise he\u2019d just be granting wishes. Still, he finds himself considering the words against his better judgment. For the most part, Becca aside, Jack\u2019s inquiries generally seem to run the gamut of favorable outcomes and benign ones. The risk is certainly there. It\u2019s just a matter of the reward.<\/p>\n
A million dollars is a lot of money.<\/p>\n
He taps his finger against his mug and asks before he can stop himself, \u201cWould you ask me a question, then?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat doesn’t sound like a good idea for you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d He goes rigid in his seat. He hadn\u2019t realized he\u2019d been sweating, but the faux-leather clings to his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. \u201cAre you going to ask me something terrible?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI had no intention of doing that, but this is about foresight, Clay, and I’m sure you said you didn’t want an interview.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, well, I changed my mind.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jack\u2019s grin widens minutely. Clay pretends not to notice. \u201cAre you sure?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, yes, I\u2019m sure,\u201d he insists, his nervousness fueling his impatience.<\/p>\n
\u201cAlright then!\u201d Jack wastes no time grabbing his pen. He tips the notepad up toward him, obscuring his scribbles. \u201cLet\u2019s start with a fun one, shall we? Something very simple. If you could choose between falling in love or finding something you\u2019ve lost, which would you pick?\u201d<\/p>\n
Clay\u2019s posture droops at the question. He\u2019s relieved and disappointed by the options. \u201cBut I\u2019m already in love.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPaige. My girlfriend.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe\u2013oh, I see, the woman you\u2013oh,\u201d Jack draws out the vowel. His hand rises up to his mouth in a rather dainty and theatrical display of awkwardness. \u201cHow silly of me! I guess I\u2019ll just have to save that one for later. Let\u2019s see here.\u201d He trails off momentarily, tapping his chin. Clay can easily imagine the light bulb clicking on above his head when he sticks his finger up in a moment of inspiration.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve got it. Would you rather marry the woman you\u2019re dating now, or lose her to another man?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d Clay jolts halfway out of his seat, knocking over a half-empty glass of water. The waitress gives him a pointed glance and he slowly lowers himself back down. \u201cWhat kind of a question is that?\u201d<\/p>\n
Jack looks mildly offended. \u201cWell, I thought it was an interesting one.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut\u2013those choices!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYours to make,\u201d he replies lightly.<\/p>\n
Some choice. Clay wrings his hands in his lap. He should\u2019ve kept his mouth shut. So much for a million dollars, he laments, because this is certainly going to be his last question. He\u2019s suddenly glad that Paige isn\u2019t here despite his earlier wish.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s not that he doesn\u2019t love her, he reminds himself, woodenly sipping his hot chocolate and watching Jack coo over his dwindling plate of sweets. It\u2019s not a matter of love, though. It\u2019s a matter of life. Which is long. At twenty-six, he can reasonably expect to live for another fifty years, and to be with the same woman for the entirety of it is something he hadn\u2019t considered. Forever is a long time to be tied down, and then, there would eventually be kids. He’d be stuck in this town without ever getting to see what else the world had to offer.<\/p>\n
But that\u2019s not fair, is it? What would Paige pick? Clay chews his tongue irately. Damn Jack, he thinks, and his damn questions. He and Paige have been dating for nearly two years, and while he\u2019s enjoyed it, how could he reasonably assume that would remain true for the next five decades? There are a lot of people in the world. Not to mention possibilities, places to see, people to meet. If something like Jack can exist, there\u2019s no telling what he might be barring himself from. If he marries Paige, he’ll never get the chance to find out.<\/p>\n
\u201cI pick the second one,\u201d he finally mutters.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh?\u201d Jack gradually lowers the croissant just before it reaches his mouth. \u201cI wasn\u2019t expecting that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Clay tenses, immediately defensive, \u201cI love her, but how can I be sure that I will when I\u2019m thirty, or forty, or fifty-years-old?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s a good point,\u201d he concedes after a moment\u2019s thought.<\/p>\n
And then he resumes eating. Clay waits for something to happen, some Adonis to drop out of the sky, but there\u2019s nothing but the scraping of forks against plates and the quiet chatter of the sparse diners. Jack is licking his fingers clean.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo?\u201d Clay asks impatiently.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo? Would you like another one?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo! I just\u2013is that all?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, I mean, are you going to finish your hot chocolate?\u201d<\/p>\n
Bordering on furious now, he shoves the mug across the table. Some of the liquid sloshes up over the rim of the cup, but Jack doesn\u2019t seem to care.<\/p>\n
Clay yanks his jacket on and leaves without another word.<\/p>\n
It takes three weeks. Three agonizing weeks. Clay wishes it would\u2019ve been over with the moment he answered the question, but no. Time passes sluggishly in a daze of anxious paranoia. It feels to him that he spends the next twenty-one days wading through corn syrup.<\/p>\n
It begins with the text messages, or so he thinks. He never finds concrete proof. Still, when Paige\u2019s phone buzzes against the dresser at three in the morning, his hand immediately reaches for it, typing in her password at a near frenzied pace.<\/p>\n
She merely raises an eyebrow at him. She\u2019s barely visible in the dark, hopefully missing his panicked expression, and he replaces the phone back on the nightstand. It\u2019s her sister.<\/p>\n
The one reassurance doesn\u2019t help. Each time her phone vibrates, an alarm bell in his head rattles along with it. After a few days, it\u2019s enough to make her angry, and they fight for the first time in six months when she finds him scrolling through her text messages again. He’s on the couch, hunched over the screen. Paige stands on the other side of the coffee table and waits for him to notice. <\/p>\n
When he does, she says impatiently, “Are you finished?” Her tone suggests that he promptly say yes. Clay nods, but his apologetic look hardly abates her frustration. “What has gotten into you?”<\/p>\n
Clay puts the phone in her waiting hand and keeps his eyes in the table. “What do you mean?”<\/p>\n
“I mean that a few weeks ago, you were so distant I wasn’t sure you cared anymore, and now you’re acting like I’m the one who’s about to disappear on you.”<\/p>\n
“Well, I obviously care a lot then,” he tries to lighten the mood, but in the face of her anger, he may as well have told a knock-knock joke to a brick wall. She shakes her head, shoves her phone in her pocket, and grabs the car keys. <\/p>\n
He makes no move to stop her. Paige pauses with one hand on the doorknob, the other on her hip. “You’d better figure yourself out, Clay, because I sure as hell can’t.”<\/p>\n
He’s in the middle of asking her where she’s going when she shuts the door. The fight only exacerbates his worries. He turns her drawers inside out in search of a different brand of condoms, or new lingerie, or anything incriminating, but there\u2019s never anything there. He apologizes at the end of every argument. He buys her flowers. He absorbs the tones and lilts of her voice, commits her jokes to memory, studies her face while she sleeps, right up until the end of the third week when she sits him down, her lips set in a grim line.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe need to talk.\u201d<\/p>\n
It\u2019s over, she says. She\u2019s fallen in love with someone else.<\/p>\n
Long before that moment, Clay knows he\u2019s made a mistake. He storms into the diner early the next morning, his hands fisted resolutely in the pockets of his leather jacket, and takes a seat at the counter. It feels as though he\u2019s been emptied out and filled with cement. He can hardly turn his head when the door chime announces the entrance of a new patron, and when Jack at last arrives in a flurry of good cheer, he hardly makes it four steps before Clay is grabbing him by the sleeve of his coat and sitting him down in a booth.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m hungry, Clay.\u201d Jack is smiling, but his words don\u2019t sound very friendly. Clay wisely orders a dozen assorted pastries and two mochas. It\u2019s only after the food arrives that Jack speaks again, and whatever emotion he\u2019d hidden beneath his plastic smile seems to dissipate at the first sugary bite. \u201cSo, what can I help you with? Are you here for another interview?\u201d<\/p>\n
Clay is hardly in the mood for games. His tone is blunt. \u201cI want my girlfriend back.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not what you said a few weeks ago,\u201d Jack answers easily.<\/p>\n
Clay slams his fist against the table, ignoring the looks of the waitresses. \u201cI don\u2019t care! How could I have known which choice to make? You tricked me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy, Clay.\u201d Jack gives him a sympathetic look as he tears a sugar cookie in two. \u201cI don\u2019t know anything about that, remember? I\u2019m just an observer.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBullshit.\u201d<\/p>\n
There is no reply. Jack dips the cookie into his drink, watching fascinatedly as the coffee drips from the sweet, forming a thin layer of buttery oil on the top of the liquid in his mug. When he takes a bite, his eyes light up, and he becomes immediately engrossed in repeating the process. It\u2019s apparent he\u2019s not going to answer.<\/p>\n
\u201cI want another question,\u201d Clay says firmly.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat’s not really what you want.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes it is! I want to fix this!\u201d<\/p>\n
Jack still doesn\u2019t look up from his food. \u201cFine, then. If you could pick between being you, or being the man your girlfriend is in love with, which would you choose?\u201d<\/p>\n
Clay slams his hand on the table again. He shoots the staff a glance that has them quickly turning away. \u201cThat\u2019s not fixing it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought you said you just wanted to be with her.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s not the same!\u201d<\/p>\n
Jack shrugs. He doesn\u2019t look concerned in the slightest. \u201cSo, you pick you, then?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI really wish you\u2019d stop doing that,\u201d he remarks nonchalantly, waving a hand at Clay\u2019s fist still pushed into the tabletop.<\/p>\n
\u201cI wish you would just give me a choice that makes any damn sense.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt’s hardly my fault that you don’t know yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n
When Clay’s hand comes down again, Jack\u2019s smile fades. Just a little. He wipes his gloves on a napkin and laces his fingers together. If he\u2019s angry, his tone doesn\u2019t reflect it.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll level with you, Clay, and ask you outright. What is it that you think you want from me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI already told you,\u201d he replies through gritted teeth. \u201cI want my girlfriend back.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t have to be a scientist to tell you that\u2019s obviously not true, not that you would know,\u201d Jack continues before he can be interrupted, stopping Clay\u2019s ready retort. \u201cWould you rather kill your girlfriend\u2019s lover and win her back, or leave things as they are?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s\u2013that\u2019s not\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
He trails off. This is yet another bad idea, but it\u2019s not like he has a choice. The available decisions are bleak: rely on Jack\u2019s questions to resolve the situation, or walk away. Clay puts his head in his hands, pressing his palms into his eyes to try and soothe a headache, and attempts to think through the rapidly escalating stress. He can hear the scraping of empty plates around him. The kitchen staff shouts in the background. The diner fills over the next ten minutes, the breakfast crowd multiplying as it nears close to eight in the morning. Jack mumbles quietly to the waitress, and Clay feels the table vibrate as she sets down another full platter.<\/p>\n
It feels like there should be an obvious answer to this question, he thinks irritably, but there isn\u2019t. Paige\u2019s lover wouldn\u2019t be the only one getting hurt if he died, and Clay has no intention of killing anyone. But he won\u2019t lose her either.<\/p>\n
When he finally looks up, Jack is tonguing the inside of a Bavarian cream donut in a rather suggestive way. He\u2019s holding it above his head like he\u2019s emptying a pitcher of water into his mouth. His trench coat separates slightly around the middle button, and it only takes a moment for Clay to realize that Jack is naked underneath it. The absurdity almost makes him laugh, but it\u2019s hard to find anything funny right now.<\/p>\n
\u201cI would never hurt her like that,\u201d he interrupts the spectacle before him.<\/p>\n
\u201cReally?\u201d Jack removes his tongue from the pastry. He licks the sugar from his lips thoughtfully. \u201cIt\u2019s funny you should say that. In another reality, your answers actually led you to kill her. Oh, don\u2019t give me that look,\u201d he chides, tapping Clay on the nose with a sticky finger like he\u2019s teasing a child. \u201cYou had a reason. It\u2019s a long story, but it involved the misinterpretation of some romantic poetry, and then there was this bear at the zoo, and she contracted this strange disease that\u2013oh, nevermind,\u201d Jack cuts himself off, forgoing the rest. \u201cI\u2019m sure you can figure it out from there.\u201d<\/p>\n
Clay can\u2019t, of course, but he\u2019s not concerned with trying. \u201cI would never do that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have no idea what you’d do.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI wouldn\u2019t do that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut you di-id!\u201d Jack singsongs in a wavering, high-pitched voice. \u201cThere\u2019s no point in arguing about it, anyway. What\u2019s your choice?\u201d<\/p>\n
Clay flexes his fingers around his mug, not quite meeting the eyes of the man across from him. \u201cI don\u2019t think those are very fair choices.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIf choices were fair, they\u2019d be easy to make, Clay, and I wouldn\u2019t have a study at all.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI won\u2019t choose.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen I\u2019ll choose for you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, you won\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh?\u201d Jack tilts his head. \u201cAnd why is that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause, if you did that, then you won\u2019t know what I would\u2019ve picked. It doesn\u2019t fit in with your experiment.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jack stops eating. A pastry drops from his grasp and rolls. The corner of his mouth twitches. Like a marionette\u2019s, his hands slide off the table and into his lap, and Clay wonders not for the first time if Jack is not, in fact, in control of his limbs.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s very clever of you,\u201d he admits. His shoulders convulse in an attempted shrug, but he doesn\u2019t seem to notice the unnatural movement. \u201cTell you what, Clay. I don\u2019t particularly like this situation you\u2019ve created, but I\u2019ll admit that your deduction is reasonable, given what you know, so I\u2019ll offer you one last question and not a single one more than that. Do you accept?\u201d<\/p>\n
Clay nods, satisfied with both the option and that he\u2019s taken Jack down a peg. Men like that, who think they can manipulate others so easily, deserve to be outsmarted once in a while.<\/p>\n
\u201cAlright, then. Let\u2019s shake on it. No funny business, now, this question is very simple,\u201d Jack explains, and after they\u2019ve shaken hands, Jack\u2019s fingers clenching and unclenching like ungreased hinges, he asks, \u201cWould you rather die by the end of the week, or have you and Paige fall happily in love at the cost of someone else\u2019s life instead?\u201d<\/p>\n
The question is immediate. \u201cWho?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo one you know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought you said I couldn\u2019t choose my death,\u201d Clay points out suspiciously, but Jack just smiles benignly at him. His eyes have started drifting to the pile of powdered donuts on the table again.<\/p>\n
\u201cLike I said, it\u2019s a very simple question.\u201d<\/p>\n
The answer is easy, then. \u201cFine. I pick the second option.\u201d<\/p>\n
Once again, Jack returns to his food, and Clay waits once more to see if he\u2019ll say anything else, but he seems completely uninterested in him, now. There\u2019s powdered sugar forming a ring around his mouth. Some cream filling dots the corner of his lips. When he catches Clay looking at him, he grins widely.<\/p>\n
\u201cI love sweets,\u201d he says. \u201cCan\u2019t resist them. What about you, Clay? Do you like dessert?\u201d<\/p>\n
Clay shudders. He shoves his mug away and stands. \u201cYou can finish that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, how kind of you!\u201d<\/p>\n
Jack\u2019s giggling follows him out the door.<\/p>\n
The same evening, Clay answers the door to find Paige outside, her eyes red-rimmed and wet with tears.<\/p>\n
She\u2019s made a mistake, she says. Clay replies that he knows a thing or two about that. At his insistence, they find new places for their breakfast dates, far from Jack and Diner 66. On Wednesday, four days later, they have breakfast in bed. On Thursday, they drive into the city to get brunch at a white tablecloth restaurant. Paige makes a joke about marriage, and Clay’s hand slides over the small box in his jacket, dampening the velvet against his sweaty palm. It’s still in his pocket when they get home. They have plenty of time now, he thinks, with the rest of their lives ahead of them, and there’s not telling what might change. There’s no need to rush an uncertain future. He leaves the ring in the drawer of his nightstand.<\/p>\n
On Friday, they have a celebratory picnic in unusually warm weather.<\/p>\n
Clay is picking her a flower when he\u2019s stung by a bee.<\/p>\n
Too bad he\u2019s lost his EpiPen.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
For most of the year, Diner 66 is frequented almost entirely by regulars. It\u2019s in the early fall that the reporter first shows up, the last week of September, just as the leaves begin to turn and the early-bird tourists infiltrate the restaurant on their way north. That\u2019s probably why no one pays him any …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":71647,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,14351],"tags":[14352],"class_list":["post-100581","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-23-spring-2017","tag-the-colored-lens-23-spring-2017","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/100581","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/71647"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=100581"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/100581\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":139483,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/100581\/revisions\/139483"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=100581"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=100581"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=100581"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}