Lara Jonas

This was their ritual. They loved the predictable eccentricity of the family run deli, which was always busy, ofttimes with a queue lined up out the door. All the sullen waitresses were related, and looked like older and younger versions of the same woman
The building was on a corner road junction, where traffic lights measured a rhythmic dance of the cars, while inside, the idling engines required the customers speak loudly to make themselves heard.This, alongside the squelching of ketchup, the clatter of cups in saucers,  knives on plates, created a buzz of unique energy.
Morgan and Lara always ordered, 'just the house special sandwich', knowing the repartee with the waitress would amuse them.
"You want cheese on that?"
"Just the sandwich."
"Nothing else?
"Nothing."
"No chips on the side?"
"No, no chips, just the sandwich, thank you."
"How about you sweetie?"
"The same."
"Just the sandwich?"
"Just the sandwich."
"Uhuh." She paused as if confused, then, just to be sure, added, "No fries or 'slaw?"
"No."
"Okay, okay." They assumed the waitresses were on a bonus for any sides they sold.
In the open kitchen a bald patriarch, with unfeasibly hairy arms, spread butter, sliced ham, fried eggs, whirling his way around the kitchen, with a filthy cloth over one shoulder that he used, not to spare his hands the heat of the pot, but to wipe sweat from his chin and neck.
"Your Mother is well, I assume?" Morgan's affair with Lara's mother had brought about this subterfuge. Her Father would not tolerate mention of him, far less entertain the thought of Lara receiving a birthday present from her treacherous Godfather. Lara was more forgiving. She recognised her Mother's need for affection, and her Father's inability to provide anything other than domination. 
"She is."
"And your Father?" It was decent to enquire, Lara shrugged.
Some child knocked over a bottle of Coke, and Morgan shifted his legs as the expanding Coke lake washed a straw toward his shoe. A huge metal bucket and swinging mop were produced, and customers instructed to lift their feet, or move table completely, while the mess was cleared up, the child bawling uncontrollably in the background.
Morgan pushed a beautifully wrapped and ribboned parcel to Lara. She thanked him with a kiss on the cheek; what a large box, a necklace surely. Inside was a polished dark red box, and inside that, nothing. Lara was disappointed, Morgan clapped his hands and laughed, fussing until she let go the box, and he turned the key. 
The music calmed the bustle of the deli, it flowed around the tables, faces turned towards the source, even the waitresses paused, pads in hand, pencils poised. When the serenade finished, there was a ripple of applause. Lara was still disappointed. 
"Well, thank you." She managed, Morgan peered at her, raising his white eyebrows.
"Still wanting the sparkles?" He had known, and, like a third rate magician, slowly drew out a velvet pouch from the top pocket of his tweed jacket. Lara cheered up instantly, pushing the music box aside, reaching for the purple pouch with a excited shudder of her shoulders.
"Morgan. You devil." She revealed a pair of diamond earrings with a gasp, and Morgan slipped away the disregarded music box.


(For Part One see 'Madigan')