Rosey: A Narrative Fiction

The sun was low and swollen, falling off the edge of that great faded blue abyss. The flat, empty horizon of reds and browns gave way to neat sections of farmland that flickered past like pages of a picture book. They were wheat fields, bristling and swaying in the early autumn breeze. I knew then M— wouldn’t be that much further. And it wasn’t; it appeared like a smudge of dark green on that lifeless line of longitude known as the outback.
I drove through the town and the cool drape of dusk gently pulled itself over a cloudless night sky, delicately revealing overborn and neglected stars. I meandered my way through the streets getting a feel for the place; and it felt just fine. The warm air smelt of eucalyptus, dirt and open fires.
It was
I saw a few more bars, both old and new; an arcade filled with ‘50cent pinball machines;’ a mechanics shop with greased-up guys still working; a busy Laundromat; and a Chinese restaurant with an inflatable crab on its roof. I eventually made my way over to Rosey’s and it was just like a diner; it had glass windows all the way around and the light from inside poured out into the night. It had big red booths that ran along the window and a long white counter top with red stools. The waitresses wore white and red aprons that were stained with bean juice but they didn’t seem to care. And the door had a little bell that jingled when I walked
She clutched the menus to her chest.
‘You eating alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bar or booth?’
Most of the booths were taken and I didn’t feel like being crowded, ‘Bar, please.’
The waitress led me to a quiet spot along the counter and placed a menu down, ‘Something to drink – water, coke, beer?’
‘Coffee, please.’
‘Coffee? This time of night?’
‘It doesn’t keep me up. I just like the taste.’
‘Well, ain’t you a strange one,’ she said smiling, ‘coffee coming right up.’
I looked over the menu and sure enough everything had beans in it: red bean soup, baked butter beans, black beans on rye, beans three-ways (fried, baked, and boiled), beans and steak, beans and pork chop. It went on. I looked about the diner, glancing at who the people of M— were; most of them had dirt under their nails from a hard-days work and dressed in comfortable clothes they had worn a thousand times. Jovial conversations carried across tables to friends that happened to be there too and I knew then these people were the