Hot Coffee

Late-night diner runs are good things.

You have the idea one late night to sit in a diner for a while because maybe the fluorescents and the jaded waitresses would make you think outside the bounds of your own head for once. You stop outside the door and fiddle with a pack of cheap cigarettes for a while; you know you don’t want them but you thought that maybe the tobacco and the feeling of it all would fit into the night well.

For a few minutes you strike matches and watch the flames make their way towards your fingertips and you hold on just long enough for them to burn you just a little. It’s a good while before you light a cigarette - the first of the pack - and you let the smoke hurt your lungs because that’s what it’s supposed to do, isn’t it? There’s a lot of smoke and it leaves your mouth in a hurry. Someone coughs.

She waves your nicotine cloud away and walks past; her footfalls are heavy and her walk is not very alluring but she has hips and they sway so you follow her in. She sits at the counter and orders something or other to drink while you set yourself down in a nearby booth.

You’re rubbing your eyes and doing your best not to stare but it’s hard to look away from something like this, right? You catch a glimpse of her face - nothing but a fleeting profile with each turn of her head. Your still-unnoticed gaze runs the length of her body up and down several times and you piece together the reflections she creates in each window and mirror to form a solid image of a woman. She’s painstakingly average. Her only distinguishing feature is the sunken chickenscratch reading “I’M BROKEN” stretched across the nape of her neck.

You’re drinking black coffee (that’s how she would drink it, probably) and as you steadily make your way to the bottom of the cup you think she’s throwing looks your way. Everyone holds sadness in their eyes so you’re avoiding looking into hers and hoping she’s doing the same to you.

It’s another few minutes before you feel comfortable enough to leave. That cigarette gets to you as you pass the counter; you cough. A bright “excuse me” rings from behind you and you turn to find her raising a hand.

The timing is perfect. These are the kinds of things that seem to only happen in movies. You open your mouth and are about to choke out something smooth but then you notice that she’s looking past you. An older man - you know him to be the owner - passes you by and pours her another cup of coffee. She sees you and she knows what you thought. She says she’s sorry with her eyes and you say you don’t mind with yours. You watch as she returns to her cup. You hold on just long enough for it to hurt you a little, and as you push out the door you can hear her ask for some cream and sugar.