Glenna by Lara McKusky

Glenna by Lara McKusky

A plate of French toast dotted with powdered sugar slid in front of Glenna, knocking her smartphone aside. Eyes locked on her breakfast, Glenna’s hand shot out to catch the phone before it hit the floor. She pocketed it smoothly into the interior pocket of her leather jacket. Utensils were scooped up.

Her mouth watered.

Glenna couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t had a cold, on-the-run breakfast. Certainly not anything as fancy as French toast.

She slathered the cooked bread with butter. She used every last bit of syrup in the small glass carafe. Glenna was dimly aware of someone down the counter saying “Hey!” at the empty syrup container.

Glenna cut it slowly, making herself wait until it was all in bite-sized pieces before she ate. She fixed the coffee that was thunked down next to the plate with plenty of sugar and took a sip. Ahhhh.

She even paused to pull her unruly blonde curls into a messy bun, so she wouldn’t get her hair caught in the syrup.

“Everybody DOWN. THIS. IS. A. STICK-UP!”

The diner stool squeaked as Glenna swiveled to take in the source of the shouting. Slashed jeans. Black ski mask. Gloved hand waving a gun. People were shrieking all around her. She saw someone out of the corner of her eye hopping over the counter to hide. Some were slipping out a side door to her right.

Really? Perfect.  ALWAYS on her day off.

Glenna glanced back at her breakfast, considering taking a bite before business but decided it would spur her on to finish quickly, if she had a full plate to look forward to.

“Hey!” she called and the gunman looked at her with wild eyes.

“This is MY diner. Get lost.”

The guy angrily strode towards her and said, “I SAID this is a stickup! Now give me your money!”

Glenna spread her legs and tapped the base of her stool. The guy looked down. There, etched in childlike writing was the name “Glenna.”

Her leg snapped up to connect with his chin and his head flew back. She hopped off her stool and grabbed the barrel of his gun with one hand and his wrist with her other hand. Then she pushed and pulled in opposite directions.

“You broke my wrist!” wailed the gunman.

“I told you this was my diner,” she responded.

The empty gun was loud when it struck the ground. She punched him to stop the caterwauling, and he keeled right over, broken wrist clutched to his chest.

She sat down hard on her stool, glanced at the waitress rising from a crouched position behind the counter and said,

“Call the cops, if you haven’t already.”

The woman nodded, her eyes wide behind strands of greasy hair, and lunged for the wall phone.

Finally.

Glenna looked at her plate. Half her French toast was on the counter. Her fork was missing.

“And can I get another plate of french toast?” she asked with a sigh.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Lara McKusky 2024