Not ‘Welcome To’ not ‘Now Entering’, Just Edenholle.
The sign is warped and dented in that way a small towns always is, where there either isn’t enough people or enough money to care that it should be replaced. The gas tank is edging towards empty and the miles are creeping towards 2500 and she can’t remember the last time she ate.
She drums her fingers against the wheel of a powder blue ‘69 Plymouth that doesn’t have keys in the ignition but the bottom hatch is missing and the cords are stripped and tied back together to keep the damn thing running.
The speed limit is below 30 so she lets herself into Edenholle at a crawl. The sun is heading down but the heat coming in from the open window is dry. There are people out and about, children in costumes, and it’s only then that she realizes it must be Halloween.
Her stomach more than her foot on the gas pedal steers her passed Town Hall and in the direction of a glowing little diner named Biscuits. The parking lot has a few stragglers in it, it’s past dinner time but not late enough to call out the drunks. The 24/7 sign out front says this joint is the best in town, and she kills the engine before getting out. She doesn’t bother trying to lock it, there’s nothing worth stealing that hadn’t already been stolen.
There’s an honest to god bell on a rope above the door that rings when it’s bumped and no one bothers to look her way when the door falls heavily behind her. She walks carefully to the bar and settles in a space that leaves an empty seat between her and an older man that’s reading the paper. He glances at her for a moment and says, “New in town?”
He already knows the answer. “Just passing through.”
He nods, in a way that says a lot of people just pass through, and when the waitress moves their way he asks her in a grandfatherly way, “Can we get a cup of coffee for the visiter?”
“Miles,” she offers.
“Miles,” he says.
It’s easy.
She thinks maybe she can be Just Miles, in Just Edenholle.