Habit

"Why do you do that?"

The question shattered my daydream into pieces so small that I couldn't remember what I was thinking of. "Ð'...huh?" was my reply. For a few seconds I was confused about my location.

"Why do you do that?" he asked again.

I finally found the source of the question and everything came back into focus. Garret sat across from me at the table. We always had lunch at the diner after class. "Do what?" I asked him back.

"That thing with your ear." His eyes asked the question more earnestly than the tone in his voice.

"UhÐ'..." I realized what I was doing and quickly pulled my hand away from the side of my head. "What thing?"

He gave me that Ð''you-gotta-be-kidding-me' look of his. "What do you mean Ð''what thing'? That thing. Where you," he spoke slower as he tried to describe the action, "caress your earlobe between your knuckles."

I knew what he meant, but I really didn't know exactly why myself. So I lied instead. "I really don't have the slightest clue what you're talking about," I claimed, probably a little too nonchalantly.

He stared at me with a raised brow for a second or two; then he let out a big sigh and said, "Whatever." He returned to his meal.

I looked around me for a change of subject when my gaze fell on Garret's plate of food. It consisted of a half-eaten hamburger with pickles, mustard, mayo, and relish, with a side of greasy onion rings. I then watched as he picked up the burger and pushed it into his mouth; relish oozed out the other end as he took a bite. I cringed a little at the sight. "I don't see how you can order the same crap every frickin' day."

"Ish nah crap," he said-or rather tried to say with a mouth full of food.

"Well it might as well be-and I'm not just talking about your odd choice in condiments. Yesterday I noticed that Al didn't wash his hands after a trip to the john." The image of the cook walking past the EMPLOYEES: PLEASE WASH HANDS sign with a big smile on his face was seared deep into my memory.

Garret swallowed his enormous bite. "Is that why you didn't order anything today?" he asked me, taking another bite of his burger soon after.

I incredulously watched as he continued to eat the contaminated meat. I kiss that mouth, I said to myself. It took me awhile to finally get an answer through the layers of disgust that hindered my speech. "Ð'...yeahÐ'..."

As he finished chewing he wiped the relish and mustard from the corner of his mouth. "Well," he said behind his napkin, "if you're not getting anything to eat then you can leave the tip."

"But I always leave the tipÐ'..."

"So? Today you have good reason."

"What the hell good reason is that?" A cook with unclean hands serving crap-burgers isn't good reason to tip.

"I meant because you didn't spend any other money. Besides, you're tipping the waitress, not Al." He shifted his plate to feast on his onion rings.

"Ð'...yeah, okay," I grumbled. I reached into my back pocket and took a dollar fifty out of my wallet; I set the fifty cents on the table and proceeded to fold the dollar bill as usual. Garret looked up from his greasy rings and chuckled softly when he saw me at work. I stopped to look up at him; "What?"

He smiled and shook his head, and returned to his food. I continued my origami for another minute until I ended up with a neatly-creased dollar bill bow-tie. I set it on top of the fifty cents and leaned back in my chair, waiting for Garret to finish eating. I set my hands behind my head and started to daydream again. I tried to remember what it was I was thinking about before Garret interrupted my train of thought earlier. It had something to do with class that dayÐ'... Oh, now I remember!-

"You're doing it again."