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Nestled in a corner booth at Potomac Mills’ Silver Diner, campaign manager Alfred F. Jones sipped from an iconicly mediocre coffee at 10:30pm on a Friday evening.
The glossy jukebox near the register belted Elvis Presley hits on repeat and Jones idly tapped his thigh to the beat, breath fogging up the window in front of him with puffs of breath.
Jones exhaled a sigh, the gust of air escaping straight from his soul.
He ached with something deeper than he ever wanted to feel, especially near the end of campaign season when his work demanded a surplus of vigor.
Today had not been a good day. Ben and Jerry (yup, that Ben and Jerry) kept him busy all afternoon with bizarre advertisement concepts (one of which involved customized wrapped cars with their candidate’s face plastered on the hood.)
Epic, of course, but Jones knew no one would agree and had had the sad job of talking two elderly, enthused men out of an idea he knew to be brilliant.
Just as Jones finished his last sip of coffee and was sorting through his wallet to pay, the shadow of someone loomed over his table to block out the orange diner lights.
“Jones, was it?” The accent was that London-posh from the BBC. It sounded vaguely familiar.
“It was,” Alfred smiled and looked up. “Hot-shot attorney Arthur Kirkland, yea?”
They shook hands and Arthur took a seat across from him. A slice of warm, a la mode cherry pie slid onto the table with two spoons.
“Thought I saw your sad face in the window. I wanted to offer my condolences on the state of American politics.” Kirkand’s expression was flat as he spoke, and although Jones often struggled to detect British-style sarcasm, he was 87% sure Kirkland was being sardonic. Alfred was offered a cheap, stainless-steel spoon and the blue-eyed American was all-too-happy to indulge his opposing canidate’s lawyer.
“It ain’t all that bad,” Jones offered, hum-ing in appreciation at the sweet tartness of cherry filling hitting his tongue. “No different from the usual, anyways.”
Kirkland raised his, ah-hem, influential eyebrows but didn’t respond, taking another bite into his mouth. The sass was so unexpected and Alfred snorted, unable to contain himself.
Jones’ laughter bounced off the booth walls and Arthur jumped. The campaign manager continued through broken chuckles, “Heh- Don’t act all British-hoity-toity on me, Arthur Kirkland. I stay on top of our friends across the pond and it ain’t all sunshine and roses.”
Kirkland took his time collecting a bite of pie and scooping ice cream on top before popping it into his mouth. “No sunshine at all, I’m sad to report. Fortunately, roses adore that delightful flash-shower humidity. I can’t say the same for myself, however excellent London theatre may be.”
“Well, I hope you’re getting out of DC. I hear DMV weather ain’t all that dissimilar.”
“No, I’m afraid you’re correct. Excuse me,” Arthur ushered a waitress towards their table. Alfred watched as the American woman’s eyes sparkled as her English customer ordered a tea. Although the diner sat only a few miles outside a major metropolitan city, not many international travelers bothered to leave, much less sit down for a Lipton tea in Woodbridge, Virginia.
“It’ll be out in just a moment, sweetheart.”
Alfred Jones watched in amusement as Kirkland blushed in response to the pet name, waiting with unusual patience for his booth companion to continue.
Typically, the campaign manager would expect himself to contribute more. But Jones felt odd tonight. He felt tired in a way a good night’s rest wouldn’t solve, and empty in a way no pie or cigarette could fill. His inbox had emails he hadn’t responded to and messages from that morning sitting in his notifications. He sipped his coffee and wondered at the weight in his chest.
Jones might say this feeling sounded something like depression- but Alfred F. Jones wasn’t capable of anything less than mild discontent.
He just… felt odd.
Arthur Kirkland took notice of Alfred’s lack of energy from the pensive expression and wilted shoulders and adopted a more delicate tone. “I hope I didn’t interrupt your quiet evening,” he looked away, out the window. “I won’t be offended if- I can move in case this isn’t a good time.”
Jones jumped in surprise and laughed, shaking himself of melancholy and pushing more energy into his voice, “Gosh no, that’s my bad. Just been a long week, it’s awesome meeting a friend out so far this late.”
Kirkland visibly relaxed and took his steaming cup of tea with a gentle thanks. “Terrific.”
“Say,” Alfred started, with renewed purpose to keep Kikland engaged. “You ever been out to Shenandoah?” Arthur shook his head, curious.
“Well, if you’re into the hiking scene there’s some gorgeous trails.”
“Have you been?”
“Sure have! I like some modest trails ‘round there, and I hiked the Appalachian Trail (stretches twenty two hundred miles from Georgia to Maine) with my brother a few summers ago. Like a hundred of those are through Shenandoah.”
“Cor!” blinked he Englsihman in surprise. His pale complexion made the oncoming blush very obvious. Kirkland confessed, “I do enjoy hiking, especially when I’m in Scotland. Though I imagine our interpretation of ‘modest’ intensity would differ.”
“Meh,” Jones shrugged, smiling. Their conversation gave the American an idea to cure his mood. They stared out the window in comfortable silence, watching cars pass by on their way home from work. Despite being late into the evening, light pollution kept the sky illuminating gently.
Lost in thought, Jones dragged his spoon across the plate and looked down in surprise to hear nothing but metal against porcelain. The plate was clean, and now it was Jones' turn to blush. He hadn’t been paying attention and likely finished the last bite.
Looking across at his companion, Kirkland didn’t seem to notice or mind, more concerned with the empty state of his tea mug.
“Hey, Kirkland,” the lawyer looked up.
Jones recognized the Englishman’s tense posture and the hesitant gleam in his green eyes behind the professionally impartial suspense. Jones sensed a likewise dread for their company to end. If he was honest with himself, he hoped his observation was accurate.
Jones knew from experience that foreign travel with clients could feel isolating when the day’s business ended. Not always, but perhaps Kirkland could be amiable to his unorthodox suggestion.
“Do you have any plans for the weekend? I hear the weather’s gonna clear up till Sunday night.”
“Err, no. Can’t say that I do. I’ve been too preoccupied providing counsel this week to have made any. Do you?”
“No,” Jones smiled, “but I might have a solution to both our weekends. Tomorrow morning, wanna go on a road trip?”
The lawyer blinked and set down his empty cup, turning away to rummage in his slacks.
Alfred taped the table impatiently, waiting for a response while Kirkland took his time extracting a twenty from his wallet. “How very American,” Kirkland smirked, looking at Jones, “What time do we leave?”