Jukebox heartbeat

Read it yourself

The air in Dotty's Diner smelled of fried bacon and spilled coffee. Of cigarette smoke that had lingered in the curtains and of the sweet perfume the women wore when they hoped someone would notice. Clarice wiped the counter, mechanically, the movement as familiar as her own breathing. The cloth made small, circular marks in the chrome that vanished instantly.

Outside the window, Main Street lay beneath a pale, blond sky that hadn't yet decided whether to clear or darken. The street was empty except for a dog trotting slowly along the asphalt and Mrs. Henderson, who clutched her shopping bag more tightly than if the wind might snatch it from her.

Clarice turned around and leaned against the counter. Her uniform fit perfectly—white blouse, black skirt, the small apron with the embroidered "Dotty's" tied at the waist. Her hair was pinned up, each curl fixed with hairspray. She looked just like the girl on the advertisement hanging above the cash register: flawless, smiling, ready to serve.

Only her smile was missing.

The jukebox in the corner played softly. Patsy Cline. Walking After Midnight . The voice crept through the room like smoke, sweet and painful at the same time. Clarice knew every song by heart. She'd worked here since she was sixteen. Now she was twenty-three. Seven years at the same bar, the same customers, the same jokes about her name. "Clarice, like the nun?" "No, like the singer." "Which singer?" "None you'd know."

The door opened. Not the small chime that announces most guests, but a firm, decisive sound. Clarice looked up.

He was wearing a uniform.

Navy. The white jacket hung taut over his shoulders, the brass buttons polished to a shine, the white cap clutched in his hand. He was tall, with broad shoulders that filled the uniform perfectly, yet he moved with a surprising grace, as if aware of his strength and deliberately holding it back. His face—God, his face. Prominent cheekbones, a straight nose, a strong jaw with the beginnings of a beard that gave him a certain ruggedness. His eyes were dark, framed by thick lashes, and a thin, white scar ran through his left eyebrow, reaching down to his cheekbone. It made his face more interesting, more dangerous, as if it told a story he would never speak aloud.

Clarice felt her breath catch in her throat.

He sat down at the counter. Not at the end where the old men sat, not in the middle where the businessmen spread out their newspapers. Right in front of her.

"Coffee?" she asked.

Her voice sounded higher than intended.

"Yes. Black."

His voice was deep and rough, as if drawn across gravel. A voice that had nothing to prove, but said everything nonetheless.

She poured the coffee. Her hands trembled slightly, and a drop landed on the counter. She hastily wiped it away, feeling heat rise in her cheeks. The cup was hot, the steam rising and dissipating. She set it down in front of him, and her fingers briefly brushed against his, which were already resting on the counter. An electric shock shot through her, swift and burning.

"Thanks."

Now he was looking at her. Really looking at her. His eyes held hers, and there was something hungry in them, something attentive, that both frightened and attracted her. The scar stretched white across his sun-tanned face, and she wondered how it would feel beneath her fingers.

Clarice took a step back, but not far enough to escape the magnetic pull that existed between them.

The jukebox changed songs. Johnny Cash. I Walk the Line . The bass pulsed, deep and steady, like a second heartbeat.

He lifted the cup and drank. His hands were large, his fingers long and strong. No ring. Sinewy forearms beneath his rolled-up sleeves, his skin golden brown. She could see his pulse at his wrist, beating rhythmically.

"They are not from around here," Clarice said.

It wasn't a question.

He put the cup down. The scar shifted slightly as he tilted his head.

"No," he said. "I'm not."

Silence. The air between them vibrated, electrically charged, as if before a thunderstorm.

"Passing through?" she asked. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"So similar."

He drank again. His lips touched the rim of the cup, full and firm, and Clarice couldn't tear her gaze away. She imagined how they would feel on her skin, on her neck, on her mouth.

"How long are you staying?"

"I do not know yet."

He set down the cup and leaned forward. His face was closer now, close enough that she could smell the scent of aftershave and something masculine, something that made her dizzy.

"But perhaps," he said softly, his eyes on her lips, "I will find a reason to stay."

The door opened. Mr. Patterson came in, in his usual suit, with his usual newspaper. The world returned, loud and garish. Clarice flinched, stepped back, turned away. She poured coffee, smiled mechanically, but her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure everyone in the room could hear it.

When she returned to the counter, the Navy SEAL had stood up. He placed a dollar next to the cup, but he didn't immediately put on his cap. Instead, he leaned forward, so close that his breath brushed her ear.

"I'll be back," he whispered. "For more than just coffee."

Then he was gone.

Clarice stood there, her hands flat on the counter, trying to breathe. The chrome beneath her palms was warm. Everything was warm.

He came back.

The next day, at the same time. The sun was lower, the light in the diner was more golden, softer. The jukebox was playing The Everly Brothers' " All I Have to Do Is Dream" .

He sat down in the same seat. This time he wasn't wearing a uniform. Just a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and dark trousers that sat on his narrow hips. His hair was short, military-style short, but a single strand fell across his forehead. The scar gleamed white in the sunlight, a bright line against dark skin.

Clarice poured coffee without asking.

"You remember," he said. His voice was like velvet, rough and soft at the same time.

"Black," she said. Her gaze fell on his lips, lingering there for too long.

"Yes."

He drank. She wiped the counter, but her movements were slower today, more deliberate. She felt his gaze on her, as it traveled over her hands, up her neck, to her face. The air was thick, heavy, charged.

"What is your name?" he asked.

She paused. The cloth in her hand was damp, cool, a contrast to the heat coursing through her veins.

"Clarice."

"Clarice."

The way he said her name made her knees go weak. Slowly, with relish, as if he were tasting it.

"And you?"

"Francis."

"Francis," she repeated, and she loved the feel of the name in her mouth.

He smiled, and this time it stayed. His whole face changed – his eyes softened, the scar shifted slightly, and suddenly he wasn't just handsome anymore. He was breathtaking.

"Do you like music?" he asked.

"What?"

"The jukebox. Do you like listening to music?"

Clarice glanced over at the jukebox, but she couldn't concentrate. All she felt was him – his closeness, his warmth, the magnetism emanating from him.

"Yes," she said. "Sometimes."

"Do you dance?"

The question surprised her. "What?"

"Whether you dance. Here, now."

"Here?" She looked around the empty diner. "There's nobody here."

"Exactly." He stood up and came around the counter. Suddenly he was right in front of her, so close she could feel the warmth of his body. He was even taller than she had imagined. She had to crane her neck to look him in the eyes.

"I can't-"

"Yes, you can."

He took her hand. His fingers closed around hers, tight and warm, and he gently pulled her away from the counter, into the middle of the empty diner. The jukebox kept playing. Elvis. Can't Help Falling in Love .

Francis placed a hand on her waist and pulled her closer. She felt the firmness of his body, the muscles beneath the thin shirt. Her breath quickened.

"Relax," he murmured, his mouth close to her ear. His voice was like a touch.

They moved slowly, in a circle, and Clarice forgot everything—the diner, the city, her old life. There was only him, his hand on her waist, the other holding hers as if it were precious. His scent enveloped her, masculine and intoxicating.

"Where did you get that scar?" she whispered.

His eyes darkened. "Korea. A knife that came too close."

"Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore." He leaned forward, his cheek touching hers. "But if you like, you can examine it later."

Her knees buckled, but he held them tight, pulling her even closer. His body pressed against hers, hard and warm, and she felt every contour, every breath. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and she heard him inhale softly.

"Clarice," he whispered, his mouth against her temple. "God, Clarice."

The song ended. They stood still, but neither of them let go. Francis raised her hand to his lips, kissing each finger slowly, his eyes fixed on hers. The gesture was so intimate, so sensual, that Clarice thought she would burn.

"Meet me tonight," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a request, a promise, a threat.

"Where?"

"By the lake. At eight."

She nodded, but couldn't speak.

He smiled, kissed her palm, then let go. As he left, he turned around at the door, and the look he gave her was so full of desire that she had to hold onto the counter.

The evening came too slowly and too quickly at the same time.

Clarice went home, showered, and washed her hair. She stood in front of her wardrobe, trying on three different dresses before choosing the dark red one that accentuated her waist and ended above her knees. She wore stockings attached to a garter belt—something she never usually did. Her hands trembled as she applied rouge and colored her lips red.

She looked at herself in the mirror and hardly recognized herself. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks were flushed, and a smile lay on her lips that wouldn't go away.

The lake lay on the outskirts of town, surrounded by trees whose leaves rustled in the wind. The water was still, reflecting the sky, which changed color from gold to violet to midnight blue. Francis was already waiting, leaning against his Chevrolet. He had changed his clothes—a dark blue shirt, the top buttons undone, dark trousers. In the twilight, he looked like a dream, like something too beautiful to be real.

When he saw her, he pushed off from the car. His gaze traveled over her, slowly, hungry, and she felt her skin burn under his attention.

"My God," he said softly. "You are beautiful."

No one had ever told her that before. Not like that. Not with that voice, that look.

He approached her, and with each step the air grew thinner. When he stood before her, he raised a hand and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek, her jaw, then slid down to her neck. Her pulse pounded beneath his touch.

"Francis," she whispered.

"I know." His voice was rough. "I feel it too."

He kissed her.

Not gentle, not hesitant. It was a kiss that possessed, that demanded. His lips were firm and hot, and when she opened her mouth, he deepened the kiss, his tongue meeting hers, and a moan rose in her throat. His hands were everywhere—in her hair, on her back, at her waist, pulling her against him until there was no space left between them.

Clarice clutched his shirt, feeling the muscles beneath the fabric, the heat of his skin. He tasted of coffee and of something wild, something dangerous, and she wanted more, more, more.

He pulled away from her mouth, kissed her jaw, her neck. His teeth grazed her skin, and she gasped, throwing her head back. His hands slid lower, grasped her hips, pulled her tightly against him, and she felt his arousal, hard and unmistakable.

"Clarice," he groaned against her skin. "I want you. God, I want you so much."

"Yes," she whispered, her hands in his hair, pulling his mouth back to hers. "Yes, Francis. Yes."

They stumbled to the car. He opened the back door, and they fell inside, their bodies tangled, their hands greedily open. The radio played softly, but Clarice barely heard it. All she heard was his breathing, his moans, the rustle of fabric.

Francis pulled her onto his lap, and she spread her legs over him. Her dress rode up, and his hands found her thighs, slid over her stockings, over the bare skin above. He cursed softly, his forehead pressed against hers.

"You're driving me crazy," he murmured. "Since the first day. Every night I've thought about you. About that. About us."

"Me too," she confessed, her voice trembling. "Me too, Francis."

He kissed her again, deeper, more hungrily, and his hands unbuttoned her dress, one by one, slowly, agonizingly. As the fabric fell apart, revealing her skin, he paused, his eyes dark and intense.

"You are perfect," he said, and then he bent his head, kissing the curve of her breast, her stomach, every inch of her, as if she were holy.

The night swallowed them up, and in the confined space of the car there was only the two of them – their bodies, their breaths, their promises whispered against sweaty skin.

Then they lay there, entangled, their bodies still connected, their breaths slowly coming to rest. Francis held her tightly, one hand in her hair, the other on her back. His heart beat against hers, a double rhythm.

"Stay," she whispered. "Stay here. With me."

He lifted her head, kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips.

"I'm staying," he said, and there wasn't a trace of doubt in his voice. "I've requested my discharge. It's done. I'm done with the Navy, done with running away. I want to be here. With you."

Tears burned in their eyes, but they were happy. "Really?"

"Really." He wiped away a tear, his thumb gently on her cheek. "You're my reason, Clarice. You're everything I want."

She kissed him, gently this time, full of tenderness, full of hope.

Six months later

Dotty's Diner still smelled of coffee and bacon, but now it also smelled of something new. Of hope.

Clarice wiped the counter, but this time she smiled. A genuine smile, one that came from within. A simple gold ring gleamed on her left hand, still new, still unfamiliar, but perfect.

The door opened. Francis came in, now in civilian clothes—jeans, a work shirt, boots. He'd found a job at the auto repair shop on the outskirts of town, and his hands bore the marks of it: oil under his nails, calluses on his palms. But his smile was still the same, broad and genuine, the scar that ran across his face a part of him that Clarice loved because it was his story.

He sat down in his seat – her seat now – and she poured him coffee without asking.

"Black," she said.

"Always," he said, and his eyes sparkled.

She leaned over the counter and kissed him quickly, a stolen moment between guests.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too, Mrs. Morrison," he whispered back.

The jukebox was playing. Patsy Cline. Crazy . But Clarice didn't feel crazy. She felt alive.

And for the first time in her life, she knew: This was her place. Here, with him, forever.