❁ Asher ❁

People usually refer to me as a recluse. Hermit is the runner-up on their favorite terms to use. I live in the penthouse of the tallest building in a burgeoning tech town. The Dietrich Tower provides a restaurant, spa, and my company’s main offices along with the apartments for my top employees. I had no reason to leave my sanctuary until I saw Roller Girl.

I tend to avoid the more offbeat neighborhoods in Dietrich, but I’d heard solid praise about the Flamingo Exit Diner’s chicken and waffles from my former best friend. Garrett claimed they made the best he’d ever tasted, which was saying something since he’d had my mother’s.

One day after Garrett left Dietrich, I found myself driving through our old neighborhood. My parents now live on the north side in the house I purchased for them. I’d driven for nearly thirty minutes down the streets I once played on with my only childhood friend. Finally, I ended up at the Flamingo Exit Diner to try their chicken and waffles.

Around since the early days of this town, the diner hadn’t aged well. Everything from the scratched Formica table tops to the torn booth seats screamed dump, but the food was fantastic. I knew my assistant, Egor, could pick up food from the diner whenever I wanted, so there was no need for me to make a repeat visit.

Until I saw Roller Girl.

The dark-haired beauty wears roller skates every time she comes into the diner. By choice, I’ve learned nothing else about her. Not her name or if she’s involved with anyone. I don’t even know what she orders at her front counter spot. Any real-life facts would likely ruin the fantasy I’ve built up about her.

During my first visit to the Flamingo Exit Diner, I assumed Roller Girl was just another of the quirky locals known to live in East Dietrich. She ought to be forgettable, yet I remain obsessed months later.

There are many regulars at the Flamingo Exit Diner besides Roller Girl and me. However, this is no Cheers where everyone knows our names. Craving our privacy, the regulars barely acknowledge each other, and no one sparks up conversations. We choose to remain strangers.

Despite my disinterest in making friends, Roller Girl became an obsession of mine. I’ve built an entire fantasy around her based purely on her Sophia Loren-esque beauty and those roller skates. What possible reason does she have to roll rather than walk?

Watching Roller Girl from behind my newspaper, I take in the small details of her appearance. The way she recently cut her thick brown hair, so it now barely touches her shoulders. I notice how the edges of her bangs curl up slightly. She’s wearing black as usual, and I spot a decorative red stripe on the hem of her bootleg jeans that matches her red skates.

I’m lost in my thoughts when I hear someone yell, “Nobody move!” A slimy-looking man makes his demand only a foot from Roller Girl.

The thug looks familiar, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s a burnout from my high school. Or worse, he’s likely friends with my lazy, stoner brother, Alistair.

He waves a small handgun at everyone in the half-filled diner. The waitresses freeze where they are while the man to my right mutters about “people these days.” My gaze remains locked on Roller Girl who stares at the weapon and then slowly shifts her gaze to her plate.

The next seconds are a blur.

Roller Girl lets out a banshee scream as she grabs a pot of coffee from the countertop. The thug turns toward her and lets out a scream of his own. I see the gun fall to the ground seconds after the coffee pot slams against his face.

What the hell just happened? Without thinking, I’m on my feet and moving toward Roller Girl who sits back on her stool while customers rough-up the screaming thug.

My momentum hits a brick wall once an elderly woman stands and blocks my path. Unwilling to knock her down, I’m stuck watching a guy handcuff the thug and drag him out.

“Undercover policeman,” the old woman whispers loudly to her elderly friend.

Staring at Roller Girl, I mentally will her to look in my direction. Only her hazel eyes can calm my raging heart.

My mental pull fails. Instead, she only focuses on her food.

Not the commotion around her.

Not the screaming thug.

Not the mess on the ground behind her.

Not on the people speaking to her.

Roller Girl only sees her plate of waffles.

Is she in shock? Insane? High on drugs? Stupid? Really hungry?

Leaving cash at my booth, I use a back exit to avoid talking to the currently arriving police. This place and its people aren’t my problems. The cops can handle the thug and whatever else comes up. I possess no ties to anyone in the diner besides my obsession, and she’s currently infatuated with her waffles.

So I drive away without looking back, but I know something’s changed inside me. I’m no longer satisfied with my fantasies. I want the real Roller Girl. Mostly, I crave answers to the endless questions I have about her, and I can’t learn them by hiding in my penthouse or behind my paper. This recluse is ready to make a move.