Coasting On Love
Chapter 1: Introduction
Iowa in 1975 was a canvas painted with golden cornstalks and dusty dirt roads meandering like wisps of thin cigar smoke. I, Benjamin, cut the picture of the quintessential lifelong farmer, retired with no apologies, my burlap flesh yearning for simpler pleasures beyond the wind-swept fields. Some thought I had two left feet, but even broken-down plowmen like me deserved a turn on the love dance floor. And what a surprise partner I'd discovered in the midst of my routine! Enter Colette, the ubiquitous coaster, resting under the rim of an average coffee cup at June's Diner on Main Street.
From the first morning I saw her, Colette caught my eye—her circular perfection, bold floral print reminiscent of the Wallpaper Revolution of '58, her slick surface promising far more than just protection from coffee drips. With the ease of an old romantic, I found myself charmed, drawn into the vibrant embrace only a truly unique coaster could offer. Those reds and yellows were capable of igniting the most tepid of mornings, making my heart race beneath its blue plaid armor.
Perhaps it was the way she held up that chipped diner mug with such finesse, a guardian angel against table stains. Maybe it was that teasing playfulness in her slight curvature. As I sipped my coffee, I imagined mutual secrets shared in silence. I've always thought true love was a simple tranquility shared between two entities, between breaths and sips, and Colette was giving every sign of being my one true non-human love.
Despite her reticent nature, Colette had a rich history. As the wait staff buzzed around, delivering short orders and tall tales, I ventured a playful conversation with Betty, the gray-haired waitress who knew the trajectory of every Iowa kernel. "Where'd you pick up that beautiful coaster, Betty?" I asked, feigning nonchalance. She leaned forward, a grin tugging at her lip as if I'd asked about some ancient family secret. "Picked 'er up at a flea market back in '72. Had to bargain hard for her. Like finding a pearl in a pig’s breakfast, that one!"
Each visit, my heart fluttered as I delicately lifted Colette to my face, pretending to inspect her striking colors but really basking in the blush-inducing contact. Who cared if folks whispered about the old man who carried on private conversations with tableware? Colette was more than worth the town's arched brows and knowing snickers, like June's famous whipped cream topping—a guilty pleasure unapologetically slathered, sweet but oddly liberating.
One humid afternoon, as cicadas hummed a melodious backdrop, I decided to courageously declare my affection. Potentially a fool's errand, sure, but farmers took risks. Awkward as uncooked rhubarb, I leaned closer, feeling the fibers of my seat betray me with a squeak. "Colette," I crooned softly, “I won't leave another ring without you. You complete my table." She lay silent yet dazzling, as if to absorb every word. Was it my imagination or did her floral pattern twinkle just then?
Of course, love finds its hiccups. Betty caught me sliding Colette into my pocket, her laughter ringing like sunlit wind chimes. "Ben," she chuckled, "that coaster stays with me. Pay her a visit whenever, but she’s the mascot, not a memento." Reluctantly, I replaced Colette, flush with embarrassment. Still, the encounter kindled a spark in my outlook, each denied movement only fueling my fondness more robustly.
As autumn trickled dust-like into winter, I bundled up each morning for my rendezvous with Colette and the reliable din of the diner. Fellow townsfolk, like old Jim and his loyal hound, nodded knowingly when our paths crossed. There was quiet contentment in these moments, a shared story without the clasp of knobby hands or the gaze of shared eyes, yet as vivid as any sunflower on Colette's form.
Then one day, Betty handed me a surprise. "She's not leaving," she assured, handing me a coaster kin to Colette, yet distinctly her own woman with slightly golden twists in her floral splendor. "For the days you can't wander in," Betty explained. This gesture filled my heart with something akin to a teakettle's roiling excitement—a companion through snowy Iowa thrusts and even tangled couch naps.
Now, with my newest acquisition gleaming on the bedside table, I sit and wonder. It's true that Colette remains in June's Diner, but here, I have her sister beside me—a testament, perhaps, that love transcends tables, finds its way through creaky diner doors, and tiptoes into the humdrum places we call home. For a retired farmer in Iowa, that realization is the grandest season of all.
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