Master of None

The stale taste of the coffee leftover in his mouth set his teeth on edge.

He sat in the café, slumped down in the booth, peering peevishly at the girl sitting at the far wall. She sat with a burly dude, prolly an ex-football player, or some shit. He was the lumberjacket type; she was in a bleached-out, altered dress that used to have a gaudy sunflower pattern – Dewey had bought Alice that dress. Now Alice was chuckling at the big lug, waving a limp hand.

Dewey scowled at the waitress, when the dizzy bitch finally came by. "Coffee?" she asked, as a peace-offering. He nodded, without sitting up. The coffee poured in to the cup too quickly, slopping over. Steam warned him of cleaning it manually; fresh pot? He waved the waitress away, taking a crusty napkin to the spill.

He got back to business: spying on Alice.

For about ten minutes, Dewey spaced out, with his eyes in Alice's direction. He thought about all the things that had gone wrong in their relationship – his broken leg, her dead cat. The fight at Christmas with her mom. The ruined dress at his cousin's wedding. The time that they tried anal sex the night before her birthday, and it had gone down so badly that neither of them spoke the next day. Shit like that.

It all just kind of piled up.

When he returned from his Nostalgia Roadtrip, Alice and Big Lug were gone from their booth. He whipped his head to look outside, just in time to see Alice hug Lug, and walk off. Lug got in to a classy little Volksy car.

"Oh, motherfucker…"

Dewey slipped to his feet, getting up with too little room to maneuver. He charged for the door, bypassing the waitress – who would pay for such acrid coffee, anyway? Out the door, out to the parking lot – out in time to see Lug drive off in his cool ride. He stood at the sidewalk, watching Lug drive off. Alice's bus had come and gone, too, apparently. "Motherfuck!"

He trotted to his beat up little Ford 4X4 crapmobile. He yanked on the door handle, realizing too late that it was locked; he fished his keys out, his hands vibrating with a life of their own. He struggled to select the right key, and jam it in to its slot. The key wouldn't turn. Dewey slapped the window, impatient. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Taking a deep breath, he tried the key a little slower. This time, it clicked home, and allowed him passage inside. He got in, his manic anger spent. He sat in the cab, head upon the steering wheel, listening to the throb in his head.

He looked up.

The waitress came out towards him, waving his wee bill. Dewey stuck up his middle finger, as she whacked the bill upon his windshield a few times. He started up the engine, and revved it. A window was cracked on her side, so he could hear her buzzing voice demand payment for coffee and a slice of pie. He let the truck roll towards her, she jumped back. He stopped, she kept backing up. He revved the engine again.

"Fuck off, twat," he muttered, reversing, and lining up to hit the street.

He drove off, after a red BMW cut him off. The waitress stood by the diner, defeated.