It’s night and we’re at the diner. You’re here with your people—I’m just tagging along, taking an evening away from the animals. Tonight, someone else will feed the hens, someone else will bring the goats in from pasture. From the tail of my eye I can see your friends exchanging sly half-smiles across the table as I watch you and you watch my hand reaching out to touch your shoulder, your hair, your wrist. I’m a spectacle of desire, lit up like the fun fair in the mall parking lot, all that neon spelling it out: hit me where it hurts. The bell above the door tinkles and everyone turns to look but me. The waitress brings you the check.
*
It’s night and we’re at the diner. It’s just us and our food, grilled cheese for me and a hamburger for you, more fries than we can eat, frosted plastic cups of water with slices of lemon on the rims. We talk. We lean across the table, bending toward one another. I reach out to tangle my fingers in your hair and I make a fist. I could pull if I wanted to. You don’t brace yourself, like you know exactly what I’m not capable of. My own hair is buzzed, so we can’t reverse the position. When I pull away, I move slowly. I want to know what you would do if you had any tender part of me in your hand. Like a kid at the doctor’s office waiting for my shots, I want to know before it happens whether it will hurt. I eat my coleslaw. The waitress brings you the check.
*
It’s night and we’re at the diner. Looking out the window, I see no light except the glow from the in here that illuminates a few feet of the parking lot. Beyond that there might be nothing at all. A moment ago I was anxious about blowing curfew, but now that anxiety evaporates. If we’re alone in the universe—and by we, I mean you and me—then there are no hens pecking innocently at the dirt after nightfall as coyotes like ghosts emerge from the woods. All I have to worry about is you, which is plenty. The bell tinkles and we turn to look as the door opens and closes, but there’s no one there. It was summer when we came in but the air gusting in is cold. When I tell you it hurts, you don’t know what I’m talking about. The waitress, her wheels squeaking in the track, extends an animatronic arm to hand you the check, which is blank and smells faintly antiseptic.
*
It’s night and we’re at the diner. There’s no one else around, not even the waitress. Our plates are empty and so are our cups. Fake plastic lemon slices hang from the rims. You turn your fork over and over between finger and thumb, then reach out and run the tines, gently, over the back of my hand, which is all the come-on I need. I crawl over the table, knocking over the cups and coming to rest with one shin on the thick ceramic of a diner plate. The other knee, pressed to formica, hurts the way it always hurts when I’m on all fours. I’ve got my hands on either side of your shoulders, fingers digging into the vinyl of the booth. You turn your face to let me bite your throat.
*
It’s night and we’re at the diner. Between us there’s a twin bed instead of a table, covered only with a fitted sheet. I get on the bed and pose like a pinup girl in silk and lace that will never quite fit. There’s a pinch at my waist and the tops of my thighs. You glance at me and glance away. From the movement of your arms, I can tell that under the table, you’re clenching and unclenching your fists. You’re both looking and not looking, both wanting and not wanting. I’m an animal I can’t recognize.
*
It’s night and we’re at the diner. It’s nearly 4 AM. In a few hours it will be time to milk the goats, but I don’t want to think about them, huffing their warm breath into still air of the blue hour. I want to think about you. You’re tired enough to loosen your grip. You climb onto the bed with me. You hold me and stroke my head and talk quietly but I can’t listen, because I can smell you and your body is soft and your hands are moving and I’m an animal, happy and desperate.
*
It’s early morning and I’m at the diner. I lie naked on the table and when the waitress comes by she sets the check on my chest. The bell over the door tinkles as some locals come in, laughing. I sit up. I’m in my work clothes again, canvas and wool. They’re too big, men’s trousers that I have to safety pin and a hand-me-down sweater, but at least they’re comfortable and warm. When I turn to look out the window, I see the entire world, still there. My car is in the parking lot. It’s time to settle up. I have, probably, some cash in my back pocket. At the counter, there will be mints in a heavy glass dish, which will go some way to clearing this taste from my mouth. When I step outside, the air will be fresh and cool, my car keys will be real in my hand, and it will be possible to drive home to the farm, where I will be an animal among animals.