She hums at that like she’s not sure if it’s a joke, then pours. The coffee’s dark and steaming, the scent bitter and strong enough to punch through the fried smell that coats everything.
The warmth of the cup in my hands is the first kindness I’ve felt all day. I wrap both palms around it, absorbing the heat. My reflection peers back at me from the surface of the liquid, distorted, stretched. Fine by me. I’ve never liked looking at myself straight on.
People tend to get weird when a guy like me walks in, leather jacket, scars, helmet tucked under one arm. I’m used to it. Used to the whisper of conversation dipping when I pass, the way eyes slide away and then sneak back when they think I’m not paying attention.
Once upon a time, I might've cared. I might’ve tried to smooth the edges, shave the beard, and keep my hands cleaner.Now?
Let them think what they want.
Their stories about me don’t change the truth.
There’s a newspaper on the counter, folded open to the obituaries. A black-and-white photo of some old guy smiles up from the page, framed by a list of surviving relatives and polite lies about how everyone loved him. There’s another column about some charity toy drive, a fairytale about strangers coming together to “make the season bright.”
I don’t read it. Don’t need a reminder that people are dying. I’ve seen enough ghosts in my own mirror.
Instead, I flip the page over, scan the headlines. Same old shit. Shoplifting. A bar fight downtown. A feel-good piece about the local choir singing at the nursing home. A small paragraph about a string of late-night break-ins on the edge of town.
My eyes snag on that for a second. Late. Quiet. People alone. Perfect hunting grounds for the worst kind of coward. I feel my jaw clench, that old familiar burn starting at the base of my skull. I take a swallow of coffee to wash it down. It scalds my tongue, but I welcome the sting.
“Refill?” the waitress asks, already holding the pot.
I blink, glance down. My cup’s somehow empty. “Yeah. Thanks.”
She tops me up. “You passing through or staying?”
“Passing through.”
“For where?”
“Nowhere special.” I give her a half-shrug. “Just needed the road.”
She studies me for half a second like she’s thinking about pushing, then thinks better of it. “Well, if you want something to eat, the kitchen's still open for another hour. Night cook owes me a favor, so he might actually try not to burn it.”
I huff something close to a laugh. “I’ll think about it.”
She nods and moves away, calling to the guys in the booth that no, she will not be bringing them“just one more slice of pie”unless they plan on tipping like it’s Christmas.
The trucker at the other end of the counter shifts, glances my way. He’s got that road-weary look, skin weathered from too many miles, hands like sandpaper. His gaze lands on my jacket, then the helmet, then my face.
“Road’s getting slick out there,” he says. “You on that bike?”
“Yeah.”
He whistles low. “You got a death wish, son?”
“No,” I say. “Just a wish to be somewhere else.”
He grunts. “Ain’t we all.”
He goes back to his burger, and I go back to my thoughts.
Outside, snow keeps falling. The flakes are bigger now, more ambitious. They swirl under the streetlamp in the lot, spinning down in slow spirals. The tree in the window shakes when the door opens, fake ornaments clinking together as a gust of wind slips in with some guy leaving, shoulders hunched.
I’m thinking I’ll stay here for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Long enough for my fingers to stop aching. Maybe long enough to order a plate of fries, I’ll only eat half of it. Then I’ll ride again, let the wind strip away whatever’s still clinging to my ribs.
Maybe I’ll head north. There’s a cheap motel off the interstate with a vacancy sign that’s never off. Maybe I’ll just keep riding until the gas tank forces me to stop. It doesn’t really matter. I’ve got nowhere I have to be. No one was waiting on me to show up. That used to bother me more. Now it just feels…familiar.
I drain the second cup slower than the first, savoring the heat. My hands have stopped stinging. My toes, too. The leather of my gloves hangs off my belt, where I hooked them, still dusted with melted snow.
