LIKE MADNESS WITH COFFEE
Melissa Swaim


Chapter One

I was told my favorite waitress was gone. Why should I care? She was just a cute, blonde service worker--a dime a dozen--though I must admit, I enjoyed checking out those long legs gently hugged by black shorts. And I got amused by the way she tilted her sweet face my way before bending over to sweep away crumbs from the floor near my table. That was the reason I gulped down one cup of foul-tasting coffee after another. I couldn't look away, and she knew it. She blushed whenever she caught me eyeing the tight material gripping her form, but her smile told me that she forgave me. Now it's only her memory playing with me. They say she's gone. That shouldn't affect me. Should it?

The Gourmet-to-Go is a friendly place in a forgettable part of Norfolk. Minus the coffee, it could easily be listed in the top ten for good food. That's why a lot of business folks stop in for lunch. They get hooked on either the Santa Fe Chicken or the Southern hospitality, which some say could mend the broken egos in this tough but vibrant city. I don't know much about that. I drop by because my delivery route takes me through this dull neighborhood of trailer parks and aging stores. A renewal effort is underway, especially with the opening of new shops like the Gourmet-to-Go. I'm not sure what it is, but there's something charming about that pumpkin-colored bistro. I can't get it out of my mind. There's something about that waitress.

I tried not to think about her. I just sipped my coffee and glanced at the staff scurrying behind the counter. She wasn't there. I heard she's taking some time off. I don't know if she's coming back.

It's empty without her; I don't know why. The other employees are pretty entertaining, especially Stephanie and Nadine. Nadine was chatting with the regulars by the cash register. Loud and full of life, this ex-New Yorker puts on a show during lunch. The customers get a kick out of watching her handle the crowd with boisterous efficiency. When things calm down, she plays a trivia game with them. They all chime in, trying to guess plots in her soap operas or scenes from TV sitcoms. Laughter erupts over the sounds of clinking dishes and hissing steam, and everyone gets lost in the aroma of fresh baking bread. Warm and heavy, it lulls bloated bellies into a temporary nirvana until cheerleader Nadine beckons for a new game. But tired patrons have to head back to their law firm or the newsroom. Everyone is disappointed.

Wild Stephanie, returning from a long break, called out a sultry, "Bye, baby," as they left. All the men secretly hoped it was directed at them. No one really knows what she does at the Gourmet-to-Go. She has perfected the art of appearing busy. Sometimes she waits tables. Other times she fusses with her untamed hair or greets customers with excessive zeal. No one complains.

Way in the back, Milo limped slightly as he fetched forty pounds of raw chicken for the chef. Chef Celia never pays much attention to the staff except to occasionally shake her head. Her cooking is her craft, each delicacy a piece of self-esteem. Warmth radiates from her round and sunny face. She enjoys this place more that she allows us to believe.

There are a few others. They all make me feel welcome. So what was it about that waitress? What made her different? I know little about her. Her name is Drema Avalon. Her features are delicate and softly framed by honey-blonde hair. Large, cautious eyes peer with a sense of mystery. She pours out her heart like the statue of a neglected angel standing in the center of a fountain. She wants to reach out, but she can't. She stays there as if waiting for someone. I can't let it be me. When I sit near her, I'm flooded by her emotion and it's too deep. She is unknowable. Maybe I'm afraid to know.

I fear something about her as if one kiss would destroy the sane routine that makes me who I think I am. Part of me wants to give in, to stay in her world forever and to discover a new version of "me." The other part knows I can't.

Suddenly I glanced up and found tomboy Nadine stepping towards me. Her smile was knowing, her stare found me guilty of some yet unrevealed crime. Something in her tough New York ways understood and she gently patted my shoulder.

"I have something for you," she said in her noticeable accent. Like most of Norfolk's residents, she was brought south due to military life, normally a lonely and broken existence. I know a little about that. Most of us here do.

She refilled my coffee with one hand and snuck something out of her apron pocket with the other. It was just a dull-looking notebook. And, I bet the pages are just as morose. "Here," she said. "Drema accidentally left this."

"Maybe she will come back for it," I stiffly told her, thinking it was the right thing to say. I nearly burned myself on the tasteless coffee. I didn't need whatever the tattered notebook contained or what it could possibly mean.

Nadine shook her frizzy head in disappointment and playfully shoved me. "Come on, you jerk," she teased. "I only read a few pages. It's all I had time for and from what I read, it would be a serious mistake if you didn't read it right now!"

No one disagrees with Nadine unless you are prepared to take on her sharp wit or her equally sharp claws, so I accepted the worn journal, almost afraid of what I might find, though peeking into her mind was way too tempting. I casually flipped through, scanned some uninteresting passages and noticed some