Pulling the straps of my backpack tight, I dart out onto the sidewalk at a fast jog, heading toward the greasy spoon diner twelve blocks away.
This distance is barely a warm-up for me. I can run for hours before getting winded. It’s just another one of the oddities I hide from the world.
The city passes me by as I keep a steady pace. A few cars drive by, but the sidewalks are almost completely empty. It’s too early for Denver to be overrun. In a few hours, pedestrians will fill the walkways, hurrying to and from work. Midday, tourists lay claim to the city’s streets and sidewalks until they are flooded by commuters rushing to catch the rail or stuffing themselves into their cars to camp in stop-and-go traffic for hours.
The cycle repeats itself daily, a cylindrical juggernaut that never changes. One that I’ve learned to use to my advantage.
As I turn down Fifteenth Street and head toward the river. I try to remember what day it is, seventy-two percent sure it’s Tuesday. That’s important because Karen works Tuesdays. She’s liberal with the restaurant’s leftovers, so I try to only go to Anita’s during her shifts.
Picking up speed, I barely take note of the buildings flying by. The skyscrapers in the business district are a blur of gray that I’ve never found visually appealing. Resisting the urge to close my eyes, I focus instead on the crisp morning air hitting my face. When I was younger, I used to run full speed and pretend I was flying. The longing to do so again creeps up from time to time.
My hands twitch with the desire to rip off the wool hat concealing my hair and let it stream free. My scalp itches under the mass of hair and thick yarn. I like to feel the tickle of the breeze running its fingers through my strands. The early fall chill hasn’t quite set in yet, so it’s too early to be wearing the tight-fitting hat, but taking it off is out of the question.
My sigh is swallowed by the wind.
Rounding another corner, I spot Anita’s. The squat one-story restaurant is sandwiched between two twenty-story apartment buildings. The red Spanish-tiled roof and yellow stucco façade is out of place between the sleek buildings flanking it, but it’s been a neighborhood staple for over half a century, so it isn’t likely to change anytime soon.
Shaking off thoughts about my hair and replacing them with the anticipation of a hot meal, I go to the side of the building and peek through a window that gives me a partial view of the kitchen.
Wearing a pair of high-waisted skinny jeans and an Anita’s t-shirt, Karen is standing in front of a wall stacked high with dry ingredients and cans. She holds a clipboard in one hand, while the pencil clutched in the other bobs through the air as she takes inventory.
The hint of a smile moves my lips when I see her.
Five months ago, Karen spotted me curled up between dumpsters behind the restaurant. With cover on three sides and an easily scaled fence in the back, it was a great sleeping spot. I must have looked pretty pathetic because she’s been feeding me breakfast a couple times a month ever since. I always arrive before the restaurant opens and refuse to set foot inside the establishment. It’s too easy to get cornered in public buildings. If it came down to a chase, I’d rather be outside, where my chances of escaping are significantly higher.
Knowing my quirk, Karen always brings a plate out to the alley.
She’s good people, that one.
I don’t stop by every week because I don’t want her anticipating my visits. What if she gets overly worried about me one day? Her concern might compel her to call the authorities, not realizing how much harm that would cause me.
I appreciate her generosity, but I’m not willing to risk my freedom on the kindness of a stranger.
Watching her perform her pre-opening ritual, I gently rap on the glass that separates us, careful not to make too much noise. She raises her chin and swivels her eyes to me on the second tap. A warm smile blossoms on her face that reaches her crystal blue eyes.
I wave and stretch my smile to match hers. When she motions with her hand, I nod my understanding and go to the back door.
I don’t “people” well, but my awkwardness hasn’t deterred Karen yet. Whether she’s pushing her unease aside, or it truly doesn’t exist, I’m not sure—I’m simply grateful for it.
Leaning against the alley wall with my arms crossed, I watch the sky change colors. As the blue lightens, the shadows shorten.
I’m ready for the door when it bangs open, so I don’t startle. Karen walks through backside first, her hands occupied with a tray. My eyebrows pinch together as I take in several overflowing plates as well as a glass of orange juice and a mug of coffee.
The meaty scent of maple-glazed bacon tugs at my taste buds, and my mouth waters. I’m like Pavlov’s dogs when it comes to bacon; I lose complete control of my salivary glands.
When Karen moves past me I catch sight—and smell—of eggs, berries, toasted bagels with butter and jam, and hash browns as well.
This amount of food is excessive.
“Do you mind grabbing those crates and turning them over, Lizzie? I thought we could sit and have breakfast together this morning. Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day and I have some time before the other employees arrive.”
Karen thinks my name is Elizabeth, and calls me Lizzie. My name isn’t either of those, but giving out my real one isn’t something I do anymore.
Grabbing the overturned vegetable crates, I right them so we can both sit. Karen sets the tray down on a cardboard box that hasn’t been broken down yet.
I regard her and the food with a small measure of trepidation.
With glossy-black hair that hangs several inches below her shoulders, Karen is a beautiful woman. In the past, she’s eaten with me a time or two, but when she did she kept her distance, knowing I was skittish. She usually stands with a shoulder leaned against the building, munching on something small while sipping coffee, as I eat leftovers from the night before. Since I only ever stop by before business hours, the cook is never in.
Leftovers are more than fine with me. I learned a long time ago not to be picky. Not having to dumpster dive for food is a luxury I don’t take for granted.
Today though, she’s brought a feast—and I’m suspicious of the change. Did she make this food while I was waiting for her? Surely it would take more than a few short minutes to conjure up so many dishes.
Catching me silently eyeing the bounty, her smile kicks up a notch.
“Believe it or not, I was a cook in another life.”
I suppose that’s the only explanation I’m going to get. I don’t welcome questions myself, so asking them in return feels hypocritical.
The crease between my eyebrows smooths as the sweet tang of pulp-filled orange juice slides down my throat. I savor the taste of the sugary goodness as if it were a sip of fine wine.
“This is too much. I couldn’t eat half of this if I tried.”
That’s not entirely true. I may not eat often, but when I do, I can really pack it in. I usually pace myself, because a girl who eats like a linebacker tends to raise a few eyebrows.
She swats a hand through the air as if to brush away my words. “Just eat what you want and leave the rest. I felt like making sure you had a full belly today.”
My smile tightens as I nod and reach for a strip of bacon, wondering if she’s become a little attached to me. If that’s the case, this is going to have to be my last visit to Anita’s. I can’t risk Karen getting used to having me around. Besides, I don’t do attachments. I’m not used to them, and the few I’ve made over my lifetime have always broken apart in painful ways.