Cliff sat by the diner window staring; brooding, out the window facing apartment B.
He watched for movement in the upstairs windows across the street.
A light remained on day by day the past week.
As the thin, frowning waitress approached his booth he slipped a hand over the coffee mug. He'd drunk enough coffee to wake the dead in Titanic.
The waitress made some sort of clucking sound in her mouth which he found peculiar to her. His tension eased when she harrassed the guy two booths down.
He scooped up several empty sugar packs with his rough hand, crumpled into balls, and prepared to plop them in the grounds of his coffee mug until he heard her voice. He tried to hold his head forward and not swing immediately toward the open door bringing in blustery cold, and her. His eyes leaned left by magnetic pull.
Her hair, still red as sunset, spilled with lazy, buoyant frivolity from under a leaning blue knit cap. Stamping wet, muddy snow from practical tall, brown boots, Audrey from Apartment B, Audrey from Nannituck, Mississippi, Audrey from his tormented dreams pulled mittens off her small hands and called, "Peter! Can I have a cup of joe and chicken soup?"
Image owned by me using Smartphone Galaxy Note 10 Plus