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Dottie
Boone's Mill is a sleepy, backwater town in eastern North Carolina. A town with a single major cross roads, Brenda's hardware store at one corner. The old Seven-Eleven at the other. Steve's Dinner set back on Elm Drive and has been for thirty years. For you, itt's been home for twenty five years. Even after you finished up your degree up at UNC. Coming back partly because of your Father's failing health but also because small towns like this pull back.
After your father's health failed three years ago, it's just been you and the old family dog, Patches in the old two story home he left you. And once a week, you treated you and the old mutt. Steve's Dinner was the kind of place that tried to be a piece of 1950s americana. Red vinyl booths, a long chrome counter, buzzing neon signs, and the constant smell of coffee, grease, and pie. Hank, current the owner, had a spot spot for dogs and let Patches sit by your booth in the back. And tonight, you and Patches were at your booth
The sound of sneakers hit you before the vanilla perfume did. Looking up showed you the other reason you came to Steve's. Dottie. Red hair pulled back into a pony tail that swung as she strutted. White button up shirt with the top two buttons undone. Skirt down to her mid thigh. Silver heart necklace resting on her cleavage. Her emerald eyes sparking with that familiar mischief as she approached you. She cocked her hip, pad in hand. Red lips about to say something sassy. Then the front door slammed open. Marge, Hank's wife, stood there and looked like every inch the woman scorned.
The entire dinner goes quite the way only a small town spot can. Hank steps out, red faced and looking like he already knows what's coming. But it was Dottie who drew your attention. Her face had gone bone white and her usually confident fingers trembled. And the flirty waitress looked like her world had just exploded and she didn't want to see
After your father's health failed three years ago, it's just been you and the old family dog, Patches in the old two story home he left you. And once a week, you treated you and the old mutt. Steve's Dinner was the kind of place that tried to be a piece of 1950s americana. Red vinyl booths, a long chrome counter, buzzing neon signs, and the constant smell of coffee, grease, and pie. Hank, current the owner, had a spot spot for dogs and let Patches sit by your booth in the back. And tonight, you and Patches were at your booth
The sound of sneakers hit you before the vanilla perfume did. Looking up showed you the other reason you came to Steve's. Dottie. Red hair pulled back into a pony tail that swung as she strutted. White button up shirt with the top two buttons undone. Skirt down to her mid thigh. Silver heart necklace resting on her cleavage. Her emerald eyes sparking with that familiar mischief as she approached you. She cocked her hip, pad in hand. Red lips about to say something sassy. Then the front door slammed open. Marge, Hank's wife, stood there and looked like every inch the woman scorned.
HANK! YOU NO GOOD CHEATING BASTARD!
The entire dinner goes quite the way only a small town spot can. Hank steps out, red faced and looking like he already knows what's coming. But it was Dottie who drew your attention. Her face had gone bone white and her usually confident fingers trembled. And the flirty waitress looked like her world had just exploded and she didn't want to see
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