Diner Scene
Rounding the corner, he was greeted by light then the soft jingle of bells as he pushed open the flyer plastered glass door. The diner looked like every other obscure highway diner, the design and décor belonging to the bygone eras of the fifties and eighties but nothing to the time between. Ancient red booths lined the full glass windows, the leather creased and sagging like the bags under the waitress’s eyes. She manned the worn wall to wall counter that separated the kitchen from the front, a middle aged woman that had worn the same pastel blue dress and formerly white apron for far too long. Music played from somewhere, too faint to make out but lingering on the ears as if to soften the silence.
This was a special place. One that had seen the darkest moment of all yet kept the secrets of its patrons as if it saw nothing. Were it not for the now muted glaring of the watch, time would not exist here.
It was warm. Empty. And likely had the best pie around. Milos adored these places.
He stepped pass the booths til he found the one containing his bag. It would seem the waitress had kept his cup filled, the half empty cup now filled with fresh streaming coffee. An angel truly. He’d slide into the booth, one hand shifting his bag out of the way while the other brought the mug to his lips so he could get a good slurp of that hot precious bean nectar. Even before his butt made full contact with the seat, he could hear responsibility nagging in his mind. Sounded a lot like his sister-in-law Susan.
Yes it was late. Yes he should be home. Yes he could be spending this time working on that freelance journalistic piece that was supposed to pay the rent this month.
“Seems a shame to leave without finishing my coffee though,” he mutters to silence the nagging, “it’s some pretty good coffee.”
Closing his eyes, he leans back and is rewarded with the protesting groan of stiff leather. He could waste a few more hours here. Nothing was required of him until daybreak so why move? A soft sigh escaped him as he reopened his eyes to stare down the glassy reflection that dared to stare back with tired, blood shot brown eyes hidden behind black glasses. The man before him was disheveled, an exquisite display of apathy. Clothes were wrinkled from sleeping in them, brown hair laying in a haphazard finger combed mess with the occasional fleck of grey. A hand came to his chin, rubbing the coarse day’s old stubble as he grimaces.
He might’ve been called handsome once. Perhaps mildly attractive. Not anymore. It was more aesthetically pleasing when one doesn’t look like he’s given up on the world.
His eyes returned to that of his reflection’s, gazing deep as if he was searching for something. Perhaps he was. An attempt to see if anything laid beyond those pupils besides the dark parking lot.
“You should be home Milos.”
The sudden sound of his brother’s voice roused him. Milos tore his eyes away from the window to look up at Marcus as he slid into the seat across from him. Marcus had always been more put together than Milos. Even as much as they looked alike, Marcus always seemed much more mature. Possibly due to him taking the stern, sharp jaw and cheek lines of their father while Milos managed the softer square of their mother, or the fact that Marcus was older by four years.
“No, you should be the one home Marcus.” Milos watched as Marcus rolled up the sleeves of his white oxford shirt with slow deliberate movements. It struck him then that Marcus always wore some sort of business casual, like his brother was perpetually in a state of going to or coming home from work.
“I wish I was home. I miss my wife. Miss the kids.” Now that his sleeves were rolled, Marcus met Milos’s eyes as he pulled a dime bag of white powder from his pocket. Milos didn’t need to ask to know what it was. He did his best to ignore Marcus dumping the contents onto the table.
“Then go home.”
“I can’t. Everyone thinks I’m dead.” His business card now in hand, Marcus didn’t look away from Milos as he made careful straight lines of white. The tap of the card against the table was almost deafening in the sudden silence, drawing twitches from Milos’s right eye.
“We did have your funeral.”
“You buried an empty casket to placate my wife. We both know you don’t believe I’m dead. I’m out there. Somewhere. You just have to find me.” The card was gone now, replaced with a dollar bill that he offers to Milos. “Go ahead. I prepared it for you.”
“What? Marcus, no, I’m clean. I swore to you I would stay clean.” Despite his protests, Milos found himself taking the dollar and rolling it between his fingers. It was such a familiar movement, a comforting one. Like the hug of an old friend. He wanted it. He needed it. Every cell in his body demanded it.
“And here I am giving you permission. You always worked better on it remember? You don’t have to do much, just a little bit to help you think Milos.”
“Just…Just a little bit.” He caved almost too quickly, pressing the dollar tube against his nose and leaning to snort the line of cocaine in one practiced movement. Then a second. Then a third. It was fire, burning through his nostrils and scorching his sinuses. He could taste it in his throat and felt the flames dripping down his front. Drips turned to downpour, soaking his hands, arms, and chest in heat. Casting his eyes downward, his heart stopped.
It was not fire that poured from his nose and mouth.
Blood. Hot and sticky, coating him and staining his shirt and pants crimson. Panic washed over Milos as his hands gripped his face in a futile attempt to stop the hemorrhage before it killed him. There was so much, how could there be so much?
“You need to find me.” Marcus stood, seeming oblivious to Milos’s predicament as he walked to his side and rested a hand upon his head. Milos looked up, inaudibly pleading Marcus to help him as his brother merely leaned close to press a kiss to his forehead, then, with a single swift movement, bashed Milos’s head against the table.
“Oy. Hey, you, this isn’t a hotel. Go home.” Milos jerked awake to the shaking of his shoulder, the blurry image of the waitress filling his view. He’d fumble for a minute, correcting his skewed glasses as she continued. “For Christ sake you’re not allowed to sleep in my restaurant.”
