Page 10 of Matchmaking On The Menu

Shifting in my seat, I press a hand against my abdomen, trying to settle the roiling. No such luck. I tighten my grip on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, hoping to conjure a steakhouse. This is ridiculous. Why can’t I control a simple need like hunger? It’s not like I’ve been on a hunger strike for seventeen days.

My stomach twists in disagreement.

I chose the apartment on the outskirts of town for a reason—the farther away from people, the better. But now I’m regretting my life choices.

The diner eventually comes into view on the corner, half-hidden behind a line of trees that catch the last of the afternoon light. Leaves flicker gold and green as they move, shadows stretching across the pavement, hoping to hold on to the day a little longer.

I almost drive right past it because it doesn’t look anything like what I had pictured.

No faded red awnings or flickering neon fighting for its last breath. No grimy windows or peeling paint clinging on out of spite.

Instead…

I slow the Jeep, eyes narrowing slightly as the place settles into focus.

It’s clean. Not sterile but cared for. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the trees, warm light spilling out onto the street like an open invitation. Everything about the place seems warm and intentional. I can tell the owner actually gave a damn when they put it together.

I should know better than to box things in before I’ve even seen them. My art beat that out of me years ago. Still… I didn’t expect this or to like it either.

The parking lot holds the usual suspects you’d expect at a diner in a small town: a battered Buick, and a couple of pickup trucks lined up like they belong here more than I ever will. But that’s not what makes me smile. It’s the tractor parked right outside the diner.

A full-on, mud-caked, seen-some-things tractor, like the owner suddenly got a craving in the middle of plowing. A quiet huff of amusement slips out of me before I can stop it.

That’s new.

My hand moves on instinct, already reaching for my camera before my brain catches up. Fingers flex around nothing. Right. I left it back at the apartment.

But the photograph is framed in my head. The late-afternoon light hitting the metal, contrasting with the clean glass windows, something rough edged up against something polished.

It would’ve been a good shot. A great shot. The kind that used to make my pulse jump and have me snapping more before I’d even finished the thought.

Instead, I just stand and stare, waiting for the excitement to kick in. For the itch to crouch down for the perfect angle. For that familiar certainty that this is a moment worth chasing.

Nothing happens.

I pinch my nose. A few years ago, I would’ve crossed the parking lot at a dead run to get that photograph. Now all I can think about is dinner. And that scares the hell out of me. Maybe six months in the middle of nowhere will help me remember why I picked up a camera in the first place. Because if it doesn’t, I have no idea what comes next.

I kill the engine and climb out of the Jeep. The smell of frying oil and spices drift through the screen door, setting my stomach off again. The symphony of hunger returns. Loudly. I just hope no one hears it. I don’t need my first nickname in town to be Stomach Guy.

When I tug open the diner screen door, a bell chimes overhead, and I fight back a smile. Dad would’ve got a kick out of this. Warm air wraps around me the moment I step inside, carrying the scent of bacon, coffee, and pie. The place hums with life, so I pause just inside the door, taking it all in.

Even without my camera, I see everything through a lens. Every detail sharp, every movement framed. Hyper-focused. It can be both a blessing and a curse.

An old man sits at the counter, hunched over a bowl of soup, his movements slow and steady like he’s in no rush to get anywhere else. When he smiles, it’s all gums, no teeth, but there’s nothing self-conscious about it. If anything, it makes the smile feel earned.

I find myself watching him longer than I mean to. He answers the dark-haired waitress with a single word. Then another. Short and precise as he weighs each one. He strikes me as deliberate, not shy. Like he’s spent enough years talking to know most of it’s not worth the effort.

There’s something almost peaceful about it. No need to fill the silence. No scrambling to keep a conversation alive just for the sake of it. It must be nice. My jaw shifts slightly, the tension I didn’t notice easing a fraction. I drag my gaze away, aware I’ve been staring.

My gaze slides to some commotion in the back of the diner. A pregnant woman wrestles two toddlers in the corner booth. She looks exhausted but content. It’s the sort of contentment people spend their whole lives chasing. If she could bottle that feeling, she’d be a millionaire. Laughter hits my ears, and I follow the sound to a few lone truckers sitting scattered around the diner, boots stretched out under the tables. They seem to know each other, yet it’s curious that they don’t sit together.

At some point people are going to notice me staring like a crime scene investigator so I take in the diner rather than the people. The place feels lived in rather than manufactured. Faded photographs line the walls, and I find myself wanting to touch them, to trace the frames with my fingertips and see if any of the stories trapped inside might rub off on me. Faded booths lend to the homely atmosphere. In LA, those would’ve been labeled rustic décor and sold for six thousand dollars in a gallery. Here, they look like they’ve always been there. No one pays them any attention.

As I slide into a booth by the window, I feel it in my bones. Peace. Contentment. The vinyl seat creaks under my weight as I settle. A small wooden holder sits at the edge of the table with menus tucked inside. Pulling one out, I flip it open. Everything looks unapologetically fried.

A corner of my mouth lifts. Perfect. Exactly what I need. Something simple. No expectations. Nothing but grease and salt.

I’ve just decided on the cheeseburger and fries when a voice cuts through the quiet. It’s warm and smooth like honey sliding over rough bark, wrapped in a soft Midwestern drawl that doesn’t rush, doesn’t push just is.