Sicario

The people that do are the people who get stuck. They stay and pretend it's a choice, like pitching a tent by the side of a car-wreck. There’re houses splattering the dirt roads that branch off from Main Street, fences made of wire, posts stuck haphazardly every so often. Bent and wrecked, a hit and run of neglect that means nothing ever looks new around here. It may have been a sparkling little town at one point, a postcard-cute sampling of good ol' country living. Now it's been painted over with a filter called Abandoned.

No police department, nor fire. The county handles all that. "Better for the budget", as though bureaucrats have ever concerned themselves with line items like Affordable Housing or Cost of Living. None of you are worth the investment, is what they mean. Even the YIMBYs and the NIMBYs don’t bother playing tug-of-war with this scrap heap.

But it's enough. It's a life, anyway. Small and boring, a persistent trickle from dilapidated water faucets, tinted brown with oxidized metal. Boil it, and you're good. You've always been an accomplished pretender, anyway. Daydreamer. You have to be, before the day-in, day-out monotony makes you forget what real music is supposed to sound like. But the chime of the diner door brings you back to reality with a thud each and every time, marks the end of whatever symphony was filling your head, like a conductors last grand flourish. By now you have a shorter distance to fall—you know not to stray too far away. Hurts less, this way, as you leave the towel at the half wiped-down table, and head out to the front.

He saunters into this life with the noon day sun, shoulders set like he owns the place. Modestly dressed, an untucked shirt that might have looked nice when he first bought it five years ago. It all fits well, though—certainly not new, but taken care of. No accessories other than utilitarian ones. Watch. Sunglasses.

He's handsome, is your first thought, even though the glasses’ frames cut harshly into the outline of his face. Strong features though, the ones that are visible. Proud forehead, arrogant chin. It juts out when he notices you staring, cheekbones widening in a little grin as he moves the glasses to his collar.

He doesn't wait for you either, just settles himself into a seat at the counter with a view of the parking lot. You wipe your hands on your jeans, hoping there's no damp imprints now, cheeks hot as you approach him like he's the sun. He slides over, eyeing you, and doesn't look away even as you set the plastic menu in front of him. 

He opens with, "Always this hot around here?" Not the worst line you've ever heard, and dropped so confidently you know that's just the way he talks; there’s no stakes in this for him.

"Not even real summer yet,” you counter. “Schools are barely out. You just wait another month, month and a half. Place’ll turn into a sauna. Now, can I start you off with something to drink?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Coffee, but—that thing it? Might need something stronger."

He tilts his head to get a look over the counter. The little drip machine looks as depressing as everything else in the place, but the bitter liquid it spews out can make a horseshoe stand upright. You don’t have time to defend the thing’s honor—just perk upright, hands on your hips. 

"The closest bar is ten miles down the road. Only thing stronger I've got is the bleach under the sink." 

"Stick with the coffee, then." He smiles. "No tiny little cups, ma'am. You bring that thing out in a punch bowl." 

Out of spite you search for the daintiest little teacup you can find in the place. It's certainly not a punch bowl, but he toasts you with it when you set it in front of him, like you've brought him the grail. 

You're bringing another table a refill of ketchup when you see him down the thing like a shot. Doesn’t even make a face, though you’ve seen grown men sputter and cough and choke on the bitterness. You quirk an eyebrow and go back to your cleaning.

He doesn’t want anything else—checking in a few times afterwards only gets you dismissed with grins and a wave of a hand. Finally, he asks for another cup, about thirty minutes after he finished the first. And then he stays, eyes now stuck to the TV up on the wall, wires duct taped strategically out of sight behind it.

Wiping down the counter a few spots next to him is a tad obvious, perhaps, but it lets you watch the news with him: big thick chyron about missing hikers; stone faced reporters with grim tones; a cut away to the grieving families issuing statements, huddled outside what looks like the county sheriff’s office. 

"Awful, all that,” you pretend you’re saying to no one in particular. “Didn't use to be so bad a few years ago. Now people going missing, just on trips to the Park. Even on private land, like a couple months ago. They find ‘em sometimes…after.” 

"Yeah, I imagine AKs shoved in their face didn't make it into the home movie."

He says it so flatly you almost wonder if you misheard. It’s the tone you’d have taken with a cashier who insists on chatting to you about your day, not grisly murders up in the hills. 

But then he grins and stands up, slaps down what you can tell is already a disproportionately high tip, and nods to you as the sunglasses come back on. 

“Excellent coffee here, though. Gonna remember that.”