A heavy, unpredicted storm had passed through town hours ago. It had lasted only a short twenty minutes, yet the chaos in the sky had resulted in crowds of all ages seeking shelter, filling every last booth and vacant stool.
It had made the place sticky and hot, and sweat had crawled across my neck, sliding down my spine, soaking through my white tank.
But now, Devil’s Diner had long been abandoned, and I felt the coldness that accompanied the solitude deep in my kidneys.
A clear coffee decanter is clasped in the palm of my hand, and my tired feet clap against the solid white, scuffed, reflective tiles.
Hours had passed since the end of my original shift, time slowly ticking toward six in the morning.
Devil’s Diner was open twenty-four hours a day, three-hundred-and-sixty-five days a year. But we didn’t often see patrons slipping in between midnight and the early hours ofthe morning, especially locals who knew better. And yet we remained open, serving out-of-towners mostly, transportation semis and their hungry drivers passing through, looking for something greasy to clog their arteries.
My five-hour shift had been scheduled to finish at eleven last night. Only Eileen, the diner's other server, phoned in half an hour before her shift was due to start when her two-year-old decided to stick a pea in his nasal cavity.
I’d decided to stay back, offer my help, knowing that a double shift wouldn’t hurt.
I’d started saving, putting away what I could each week, even though it wasn’t much, and accepting extra shifts where I could, with the plan to eventually accumulate enough money to buy a one-way ticket to New York, like Jade would have wanted—even without her,without them.
However, I couldn’t deny that the idea of keeping myself—and my mind—busy through one of the hardest days of my life was what had really kept me here until the early hours of the morning.
I walk gingerly toward the only patron in the back corner—who slipped in as I stepped away for a quick bathroom break—weaving myself around white tables with corners edged in steel and red leather booths.
A ragged blanket riddled with holes is wrapped around the shoulders of the frail looking man with sparse gray hair. His face is covered in what looks like ash and dirt, stippled with a beard that I could tell hadn’t been groomed in a long while.
As I step closer, a horrible smell bridges the entrance to my nose and singes through my nostril hairs. It forces my stomach to turn over itself.
He smelt like death. The rotting carcass of an animal decomposing on the side of an empty road.
I can’t speak.
I hold my breath, placing a polished mug in front of him, choosing to pour from the decanter instead.
Steam rises from the murky liquid, and I swallow, pushing air out of my mouth, asking him, “Cream or sugar, sir?”
He doesn’t look at me, his cleft chin pressed to his chest, his shoulders hunched over as though he couldn’t straighten them even if he wanted to. It looked as if they’d been welded into place.
I knew how that felt, to want to curl into yourself, and it made me soften toward him, but the smell wafting from him was only getting worse. I continue to discreetly breathe through clenched teeth.
The man keeps his eyes on the table, ignoring my question. With shaky hands, he reaches for the handle of the mug, slowly bringing it to his quivering mouth, forgoing both the cream and sugar I’d offered.
I place one foot behind me and turn, taking my leave, when a cold hand wraps like a viper around my wrist.
My heart slams inside my chest and I look down to see a tremble shake through his frail limbs, transferring seamlessly to my own.
I’m frozen in place, watching as his other hand clumsily returns the mug to the table; the hot brown liquid spilling over the edge and splashing across the cream laminate.
I make to clean it up, only he stops me.
His sunken gray eyes rise to mine, and I shiver when I feel them attempt their shovel down to my soul.
“Pretty young girls...” His words tremble as they fall from his mouth.
I try pulling my arm free from his hold, only for his grip to tighten. He rasps so quietly I barely hear him, “Doomed, doomed, doomed.”
Arching my brow, I tilt my head to the side, ready to call for help when he drops my arm and looks away, bracketing the mug between both palms. He returns the coffee-stained ceramic to his mouth and whispers his next statement over the chipped rim.
“You are doomed.”
I wrap my hands around my arms, my skin is throbbing and my larynx feels bruised as I force myself to speak.
