Sunset at the Red Arrow Grille

By Joseph Carrabis

Angie watched the old couple take booth 7. They sat on either side of the table, reached across and held hands.

She sized them up quickly and smiled: dressed for Fall weather in old, well-worn, but clean clothes. Probably limited income, just got their checks. This is their big time out this month. Make ‘em smile. “Hi. I’m Angie. I’ll be helping you today. What can I start you with?”

The old couple smiled and kept one hand out to each other.

He looked up, nodded. “Coffee. Extra cream, please.”

She smiled and looked up. “Do you have iced tea?”

“Sweetened or unsweetened?”

“Unsweetened. I’ve got my own sugar right here.” She patted the old man’s hand.

“Aw,” he said.

“Aw,” she said.

Angie returned with their drinks. The menus remained unopened on the table.

The old woman tipped a sugar packet into her tea and swirled it with her straw. “I’d like some homemade macaroni-and-cheese. Do you have that?”

Angie nodded, wrote her order, and looked at the old man.

“A meatloaf plate. Got one?”

“Sure do.”

He dumped two creamers into his coffee. “Met in a diner. Years ago. Saw your sign, stopped in.”

The old woman squeezed his hand. “Yes. Diners always have good, simple, stick to the ribs food. We have a long way ahead of us and don’t want to stop until we get there. That’s why we pulled in here.”

“Where you folks going?”

He sipped his coffee. “Reservoir. One town over.”

Angie drove a mental map. “That’s not far, is it?”

The old woman pointed out the window. “We want to be there at sunset, when the sun’s going over those mountains. All the colors of the mountains and setting sun reflect off the water.”

“Oh, yes. That’s nice.”

The old man’s eyes never left the old woman’s face. “Reservoir was our first date.”

Angie smiled. “I’ll put your order in.”

She came back with a plate in each hand. Their hands pulled apart to make room on the table. Angie’s face reddened. “Sorry.”

The old woman smiled. “Not to worry. We’ve been holding hands over fifty years now.”

“Never let go.” The old man raised her hand to his lips and kissed.

“Fifty years? Wow. That’s amazing.”

The old woman picked up her fork. “It wasn’t always easy.”

The old man winked at Angie and hooked a thumb towards his chest. “Not the easiest to get along with sometimes, me.”

“Neither of us was, at times.”

He forked off a chunk of meatloaf, shoveled it into a mound of mash potatoes, and swirled it in some gravy. “Took her a while to train me.”

She laughed. “We trained each other.”

“No, really. How’d’you do it? Fifty years? You must really be in love.”

He laughed. “Helps.”

The old woman closed her eyes as a forkful of homestyle, thick and creamy mac-and-cheese entered her mouth. “Oh, this is good. Got a good, sharp tang to it. Must use real cheddar.”

“Callie – he’s our cook – makes it from scratch every day. It’s one of our best sellers.”

“I can see why.”

The old man took another sip of coffee. “Have to want it, love. Have to work at it.”

The old woman took another mouthful of mac-and-cheese. “It’s a decision.”

“A commitment.”

Somebody called from the kitchen. “Angie, order’s up.”

“I’ll be back in a second. Can I get you anything?”

He tapped his cup, she shook her head, and their hands joined again.

Two tables over a woman sat across from a man in oil-stained mechanic’s overalls. Each had a child at their side. The woman cleared her throat as Angie passed.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, sorry.” The woman turned to the old couple. “Excuse me. I think it’s wonderful you two love each other like that.”

“Thanks.”

“Yes, thank you. May we wish you the same.”

The man in mechanic’s overalls looked up, grunted, smiled, went back to his menu.

Angie refilled the old man’s cup. “You said it’s a decision?”

The old woman put her fork down and wiped her lips. “I think so, yes.”

The old man nodded. “Long term love. Gotta get past the heavy breathing and grunting part.”

The man in mechanic’s overalls looked up, stared, went back to his double burger with cheese and bacon, hold the lettuce.

The old woman stopped a dripping forkful of creamy mac-and-cheese close to her lips. “What my husband means is, you fall in love. There’s lots of passion at first. Then one day you wake up, look at the person next to you and have to decide: can I be with this person the rest of my life?”

He nodded, tapped her hand, smiled. “Rest of my life.”

“If you say no, get out before anybody gets hurt. Part as friends who enjoyed each other for a while. If you say yes, though…”

The old man nodded. “Gotta be a firm ‘yes’.”

“Then you’ve said you’re willing to work at it. It may not work out, but you’ve got to work at it. You have to give it a chance.”

The old man chuckled. “Gotta give it your best shot. Might not be easy.”

“But if you’re willing to give it a chance, to do what you can to make it work.”

“Gotta have someone’ll work with you, too.”

The old woman nodded. “Yes, that’s important.”

The woman two tables over looked at her husband, his face in his phone, his mouth full of ketchup-soaked french fries.

The old man forked up some mashed potatoes and gravy. “You got someone who’ll work with you, then work it.”

The old woman nodded. “Yes. You have to want it. Really want it. Otherwise you won’t give it its best shot.”

Angie frowned. “Its best shot?”

The old woman smiled. “The relationship’s best shot. It’s best chance to flower and grow.”

The old man reached across, patted her hand. “She’s a smart girl. She’ll figure it out.”

Angie pulled back, coffee pot still in her hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

He held up his hand. “Happy to talk. Just saying some things need their own exploring.”

The old woman sipped her tea and looked at the old man across the table. “You have to ask yourself do you love the person. Dig deep. Maybe you don’t. Decide.”

The old man kissed her hand. “If you love them, will you do what’s best for them? Because doing the best for them means doing the best for you. Learning what’s best for both can be scary. Means you might have to let them go. Means you might be alone when you don’t want to be alone.”

“What do you do if the other person doesn’t love you back?”

The old man tapped his cup. Angie poured. She reached into an apron pocket for some extra creamers and came up empty. “Back in a minute.”

The man two tables over held up his glass as she passed. She grabbed it on her way. “Cherry, right?” He nodded.

She sloshed his glass putting it down. “Sorry.” She wiped it up and hurried over to the old couple.

The old man put cream in his coffee. “Do you really love the person?”

“I think so, yes.”

The old woman put her fork down. “Do you want the best for them?”

“Of course.”

The old man looked at the remaining meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas and carrots on his plate. “Could you box this up for us?”

“Mine, too, please.”

Angie lifted their plates.

“Then you have to understand that you may not be what’s best for them. You may think you are, they may think you’re not. If you love them, you have to honor them.”

“Have to let them pursue their own happiness.”

“Yes.”

“Let them go.”

“Yes.”

The woman two tables over wiped her eye, looked at the man sitting across from her, huddled over his food, at the children bickering over theirs, and wiped her eye again.

“I’ll be back with your check.”

“Take your time. Could we have a coffee to go?”

“And an iced tea?”

The woman two tables over cleared her throat again. “Is it really worth it? All those years?”

The old man reached for the old woman’s hand. “Have to decide.”

“For us, yes.”

Angie returned with their bill and boxed up their food. The man glanced at it, handed her a bank debit card.

“Would you like the senior discount?”

The old man laughed. “Want a bigger tip?”

The old woman chuckled. “The senior discount’ll be fine.”

Angie went to the woman, man, and children two tables over and cleared some plates.

The old woman watched her work.

The old man reached across and held her hand. “Tip?”

“How much is left in the checkbook?”

He reached into a pocket, took it out, flipped through a few pages, showed her the number.

“Give her everything. Empty it out. Let her have a joyous life.”

“Still got our medicine, my love?”

The old woman pulled a small plastic ziplock from her purse. Two white pills, slightly larger than aspirin, cuddled inside. “Right here, my love.”

“It’s still our decision?”

“Yes.”

“We have all we need then?”

“We have each other, so yes.”

They waited until Angie disappeared into the kitchen then left.

Angie came back, sighed at their empty table as she bussed it, lifted the receipt, and spilled the ice from the old woman’s iced tea over the table..

The man in mechanic’s overalls snorted. “Stiff ya, did they?”

The woman opposite him shook her head, looked away.

Angie looked around. “Where did they go?”

The woman pointed out the window. “Isn’t that them? Getting in that car?”

Angie rushed out, waving the receipt as they pulled away. The old man tapped the horn. The old woman waved. Angie walked back in shaking her head.

The woman looked at her children. “Can you be quiet for once?” She waved her hand at Angie. “We’ll cover their bill if they didn’t pay.”

The man looked up. “We will?”

Angie stared at the woman for a moment and showed her the receipt. The woman’s eyes widened. “Sweet lord, you hit the lottery.”

Master storyteller and linguist Joseph Carrabis (was/could be/might have been) weaves wildly imaginative stories. With a sharp sense of humor, he creates multi-dimensional characters, reaching beyond the boundaries of the laws of physics by combining advanced mathematics, quantum physics, cybernetics, and neuroscience.
Outside of writing, Joseph spends his time with his wife, Susan, reading, listening to and playing music, and walking his dog. He runs a monthly forum, Roundtable 360º, with creatives discussing their journeys.