Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 1

Bonnie Mill Diner.
    The Bonnie Mill was some fancy-ass private home before the turn of the century. From the outside, it's a huge Victorian painted lady with a wraparound porch. The typical ladies in the parlor, men in the… manlier rooms kind of house. I can imagine cute little chambermaids scurrying around with lace doilies on their heads yelling, " Yes mum, no mum, right away mum ." Nowadays it features apartments on the upper floors and a kick ass place to eat Saturday morning breakfast on the main floor. It's not that I can't cook my own breakfast. I've been a bachelor since I was eighteen years of age. It was either learn to cook or suffer the canteen seven days a week. It just seems pointless to make a big breakfast for a party of one. Besides, the food at the diner is great, the company enjoyable, and it's routine. I like routine.
    Stepping through the door, a lively chorus of "Gunny" from about ten familiar faces fills the air to mingle with the smells of fresh baked pastries, bacon, and freshly brewed coffee.
    "Morning." I returned their greeting and waved.
    A little of my ire subsided and a warm smile crossed my face at the early morning welcome, reminding me of that old sitcom Cheers . Everyone is pretty much a regular, only a couple of the faces unrecognizable. It's a place where everybody knows your name, although instead of a big wooden bar, the main focus is a soda fountain-style counter. And rather than being a really cool Boston pub, the Bonnie Mill is a diner with the original Formica tables and red vinyl chairs set in place back in the 1950s. So, I guess there really aren't that many similarities between the Bonnie Mill and Cheers, but the greeting is the same. The only variation is from Bill Klein who yells out, "Gunny Gunnery," while he laughs boisterously and slaps the counter with a loud bang.
    Not sure what Bill's major malfunction is, but from the moment the guy found out my nickname was Gunny, short for Gunther and that I'm a Gunnery Sergeant the old man has thought it was the funniest joke he'd ever heard. I nod in Bill's direction and take a seat at the opposite end of the counter as far away from the strange man as I can get. There is just something creepy about a guy who laughs at the same joke nearly every week for a year.
    "Mornin' Gunny, what ya in the mood for," Carrie Anne asks, setting down a glass of water, turning over a mug and pouring a cup of coffee.
    Carrie Anne is another thing that's routine at the diner, more accurately, a weekly annoyance. She waits on me every Saturday morning, claiming if she has to make sweets all week she is entitled to the man candy— that would be me— on the weekend. And, she is entitled to whatever she wants at the Bonnie Mill. Carrie is a twenty-eight year old, insane bleach blonde with a big mouth and even bigger… um… assets. She's married to Carl, the owner of the place, who just so happens to be butt-ass ugly and thirty-something years her senior. Sure she married for love , I asked her once. Yeah, I didn't believe her either.
    "Whatcha bake me fresh this morning, darling?"
    Carrie Anne leans in, her assets practically spilling from her two-sizes too small white blouse, and licks her brightly red-painted lips before murmuring seductively, "Hot, cherry pie."
    After a year of practice, the greasy-looking lips inches from my face and the sickly sweet perfume she wears don't make my stomach roll and I no longer have to hide the gag behind a coffee cup. It's not that there is anything wrong with sweet perfume; I like it just fine, just not a complete bottle at a time. I even like painted lips— again in moderation. I dated a drag queen once, hot as hell. The things he could do with those pouty and glossy lips… Well, let's just say, Carrie Anne is so not sexy. But the woman is a fan-fucking-tastic baker, so I put up with her batting her fake lashes and groping my ass while she walks me to the register.
    I order my normal farmer's breakfast— three eggs, bacon, ham, sausage, hash browns, and an extra side of toast— with a slice of cherry pie and shake my head as Carrie swings her hips exaggeratedly while she swishes and sways her way to the kitchen. I can't help but wonder as she walks away, trying to be all sexy, what she would say if she knew I was gay and none of her shenanigans did a damn thing for me. Not that I have plans to tell her anytime soon, but sometimes I think it would almost be worth the look on her face. Talk about