“No, no,” cried Audrey. “I don’t want to hear any more.”
I get the feeling that Harry has decided to sell the cafe and move back East. Audrey’s family live here and the bonds are tight.
But that’s Harry. Ever since he got out of the army he’s had itchy feet. Audrey believed that buying the cafe with his army pay would settle him down. He took to the routine of life for a while, but then he got to staring out of the window instead of serving customers.
Harry is famous for his scrambled eggs. He guards the recipe and will not reveal his secret.
Lately, his scrambled eggs are not up to standard — people who have travelled a distance have complained.
“We came all the way from Fuckyou Idaho, just to taste your eggs and they taste like anyone else’s’ eggs. We are typical annoying Americans and we want our money back.”
Harry always gave them their money back — I wouldn’t. Fuck ’em and the Buick they rode in on, but then again, I’m not Harry — he’s a nice bloke and I’ll miss him and his scrambled eggs.
1958 illustration by Harry Hants.
Helen is aware of his imperfections. He tends to snore, but a good poke in the ribs remedies the situation. He fumbles for his wallet and can never remember which pocket it is in — even though it is carried in the same pocket every time. He falls asleep at importune moments, and he loves hot dogs. All these things are overlooked because he loves her and there is no other. He notices the pretty little things, of course, but in the same way that any lover of beauty consumes the wonders of the world. There is no one else for him but her, and she knows it — deep in her heart, and wrapped around her soul.