Somewhere In Los Angeles

Somewhere in Los Angeles, at one in the morning in the middle of July, there were eight patrons in a Norm's Restaurant off of a busy highway. In the corner was a man with a very unkempt beard and several slices of pie, at a table in the middle were three guys who seemed very intoxicated, there was a very small woman who silently ate a dish of ice cream in a booth, and a man who was fingering his wedding ring nervously two away from her. The remaining two patrons were a Writer and a Musician in a booth in the corner. Even despite the odd diner company, they stood out.
The Writer herself seemed subdued at a glance. She simply wore a long, black cotton dress with a lacy fringe, and dark blue boots. She swung her feet slightly as she alternated eating pancakes smothered in syrup, and scribbling down notes in a worn Moleskine notebook laid open next to her plate. Her dark hair was tied into a loose braid, and her big pale eyes tended to look at everything but her companion, and on many occasions, nothing at all.
By contrast, the Musician looked only at his companion, to the exclusion of everything else, and his eyes were brighter than you would expect, rising up from the general exhaustion of his entire face. Due to that exhaustion and his own clothing- He wore a dark green pinstriped suit that had seen lots and lots of better days and a brown fedora, which he wore very well- he seemed older than he actually was, which was 33 at the latest.
"So," the Writer asked. "Are you gay?"
The Musician looked up from his sunny-side up eggs. "What?"
The Writer smiled. "Are you gay?"
The Musician dipped a triangle of toast in egg yolk, which split and began running all over the plate. "No, I'm not."
"Are you sure?"
"Pretty sure."
"Not even for David Bowie?" The Writer asked, leaning forward slightly.
"Not even for David Bowie."
"What about Iggy Pop?"
"No."
"Jimi Hendrix? Paul McCartney? Bob Dylan?"
The Musician shook his head.
"Tom Waits?"
The Musician stuffed the toast in his mouth, mumbling as he did so, "Look, that was one time, okay? And it won't ever happen again."
The Writer's lips curled up. "Well, that's good."
"Yeah it is." The Musician agreed. Then he widened his eyes, and backpedaled. "Not that there's anything wrong with being gay, you know."
"How do you mean?" The Writer asked, raising one of her thin eyebrows.
"That there's nothing wrong with being gay."
"I don't even know what you're talking about."
The Musician rolled his eyes. "Some people would call you intolerant, you know."
"Well, I'd call them intolerant. They can't tolerate my alleged intolerance, and I find that intolerable." The Writer delicately stabbed at her short stack of pancakes, frowned, then poured more maple syrup on them. "Anyway, I'm not intolerant, I just don't like the idea."
"Whatever, bigot. " The Musician said, waving off her remarks.  "What are you writing about?" he asked after a long pause.
"Well, the story I'm working on is a sort of drama comedy... slice of life type thing. I was thinking of setting it in a diner like this one."
"So when you said 'lets grab a bite' what you meant was 'I have writer's block.'"
She shrugged unapologetically. "I was going to write about a gay man, I think."
"Why don't you talk to someone who is actually gay, then?"
She bit her pen. "I'm afraid of offending, what with my general bigotry."
"If you don't approve of their lifestyle or whatever, why write about them?"
"Because they exist."
The Musician considered this. "Okay, I'll buy that."
Their conversation was interrupted briefly by a loud argument between the three drunk men. They watched in fascination until the most sober of the three calmed the other two down. The Writer and the Musician returned to their food.
"Anyway, you're looking shockingly less sober than usual. Drink a lot this time?" The Writer said.
"Nah, just tired."
"So what exactly have you been doing?"
"Just haven't been able to sleep much. You know how it is."
"You should hit on the waitress," the Writer said suddenly. "She's been eying you all night, you know."
"What?"
"I'm sure she could solve your sleeping difficulties."
The Musician looked around, bewildered. The waitress was indeed looking at him with intense interest. "No, I'm good."
The Writer raised an eyebrow mischievously. "Ollie, I'm surprised at you. Do you have something against waitresses?"
"Nah, I've got this whole thing about being faithful to my wife."
"Oh your wife won't mind. Ask her over."
The Musician had been tapping out a constantly changing rhythm on the tabletop all this time. He stopped suddenly and pointed his butter-knife at the Writer.
"Stop it, Iris. I'm too tired. This run really beat me."
The Writer frowned, and took to watching a man with dreadlocks saunter by outside.
The Musician took a few more bites, then set his utensils down.  He pushed up his hat with his forefinger. "Though, I have to admit, she is totally cute." He winked at the Writer, who just shook her head and continued with her drowned pancakes and scribbling.
"And those legs they just don't stop."
"Sure they do," the Writer said blandly. "Right where her feet start."
She fell into watching the cars outside after one squealed out onto the road.
"How long are you back this time?" She asked, looking back at the Musician and setting down her pen.
"Next tour isn't for six months."
"So that's... December?"
"Yeah, I think we start out on the... 12th, 13th, something like that."
"So you'll be gone for Christmas again?" The Writer pursed her lips.
"Looks like it."
The Writer stood up suddenly. "Excuse me." She wandered off in the general direction of the restrooms. The Musician admired the unconscious, full-body sway she walked with, then, once she was out of sight, reached across the table and picked up the Moleskine. He ran his thumb over the outer edge, but then sighed, and returned the notebook to its proper place. He started a new beat on the table, this time employing the use of the sugar container, to great success. The Writer returned to the table, and eyed her notebook protectively. The Musician pointed at the ceiling, where music was apparently emanating from.
"This has to be the absolute worst version of 'Wish I Had a River' ever."
"Agreed," The Writer said, still eyeing the notebook. She shrugged and looked just past her companion again. "The man in the corner, do you think he's a trucker?"
"That or a politician," The Musician replied. "Both maybe?"
"I like the idea of that. I bet he has an exquisite name. 'Beauregard,' maybe."
"No, no, he's a traveling pie connoisseur," the Musician said. "Note how none of the slices are a la mode. He's trying to fully experience the flavors."
"He should get with the girl with the ice cream, wouldn't that be sweet?" The Writer pointed with her fork at the subject.
"Please tell me that pun wasn't intended."
"Give me some credit, puns are the lowest form of humor," the Writer said primly. "Do you ever wonder what it would be like to have normal impulses?"
The Musician listlessly moved the untouched strips of bacon around his plate. "Normal?"
"To not channel yourself into art? Not to be driven to, you know, hang around in a van for months at a time with a bunch of guys... or take notes on the people around you."
"Well, I guess, but it's just something you... have to do, you know? If you've got those feelings in your soul you have to get them out. No one else can."
"Do you ever feel lonely, Ollie?"
The Musician tilted his head. "Come again?"
The Writer was staring at him fixedly with her pale eyes, for perhaps the first time that evening. "Are you lonely?"  
"I guess so."
"Do you think it's because of what you do, or you do what you do because you're lonely?"
"All of the above, I guess." The Musician said. "Anyway, you just got shockingly pensive."
The Writer's gaze slid off of him and she resumed her observations of the room. "It happens. So have you made a decision on the waitress?"
"Yes. I think I'll say something like 'I play the piano and you're hot.'"
"Mm. That had a kind of poetry to it." The Writer said, pushing away her plate.
"Yeah, I think I'll make that into a song. Key of G."
"I can see the weeping teenagers now."
The Writer picked up the book bag next to her, and stuck the Moleskine and her pen inside of it. "I'm ready when you are. Call her over."
The Musician waved his hand to get the waitress' attention. She came over in a tired sort of way, but her eyes were fixed on the Musician.  
"Can we have the check?"
"May we," said the Writer automatically.
"That too."
The waitress looked at them for a moment. "I've seen you guys before," she said. "You're like brother and sister, right?"
"No," the Musician said.
"Oh." She said. "Well I'll grab these," she said, leaning across the table with more effort than seemed necessary, taking their plates as she did so.
The Musician looked at the Writer as the waitress walked away and they both started laughing.
"Golden opportunity!" The Writer said between giggles. "Did you see how she leaned over you?"
"Unfortunately yes, and her perfume was nauseating."
They continued laughing until said waitress, clueless to her role in their amusement, brought them the check. The Musician plunked a twenty and a five on the table and stood, adjusting his fedora. The Writer grabbed her bag and joined him. They exited the diner and stood outside for a moment.
"Despite us accomplishing nothing, this was nice," he said, looking at her.
She had her head turned up, looking at the half-moon above them. "Looks like melted butter, doesn't it? All wobbly and golden."
He gazed up at the moon. "I missed you."
She smiled and leaned up against him, brushing her lips against his, for just a second or two. "Public displays of affection are an abomination, but I'll make an exception since it's been so long."
"Gee thanks, dollface," the Musician said, smiling at the Writer.
"Anytime, babycakes," the Writer replied. "I can almost see all of Orion tonight."  
"Whadduya need to see him for? I'm right in front of you."
"Right beside me, actually."
"It's a nice place to be," he said as they wandered across the parking lot.
"I just thought of a new story," The Writer said as the Musician opened the car door for her.  
"Does it involve devilishly handsome pianists in any way?"
"No, it's about flying cats," she replied when he got in the car.  The Writer finally flicked her gaze over to him as he started the ignition. "I missed you too."