The Enigmas of the Night

The rain pelts the large, glossy panes of the window, and the yellow glow from the neon café sign outside lights the tables nearest them. The small clock on the back red faded brick wall reads 2:17am. You sit quiet, somber, watching the rain strike the pavement outside. You are one of the only patrons. This café is always open. Those who venture in the night hours have something stirring on their mind.

 You wonder deeply, what could be troubling the gentleman with the large teeth sitting at the coffee bar, as your favourite barista effortlessly makes him a drink. He looks a little small for the average male of his kind yet, still colossal in comparison to the barista. He's deep in thought, his fingers occasionally flick the keys of his old civic. You saw him park outside. You watched him come in from the rain. It's not strange, you're sitting by the window, you watch all the cars that pass by, or park, or stall in the street. Though something tells you he's had a rough go, and you feel an overwhelming craving to know why. He removes his fishing hat, and sets it on the bar top. His hair is ruffled from the hat, and it makes him look even more stressed than he looked before. The barista asks him a question that you cannot hear, though soon after his shoulders start to jump every so often, and you can't tell if he has the hiccups, or if he's crying, but you guess the ladder. The barista is listening intently while mixing his warm drink. You can tell whatever he ordered is hot, because steam rises from the mug and dances in the air. She sets the drink in front of him, and gives the man a sympathetic look, along with the cutest little head tilt. He slides his keys away, so as to stop fidgeting with them, and takes the handle of the mug in his hand instead. He seems to take a deep breath, taking in the scent of the beverage. It seems to give him the slightest bit of comfort, as his shoulders relax a little. He continues conversation with the barista, and you hear the familiar chime from the door. 

Your eyes meet a very soggy woman, in a fancy red dress, with the neckline cut low. Her thigh peeks out from a slit cut into the skirt. She wears a big hat, weighed down from the rain. She removes it from her head, and pats down her slightly bothered blonde curls. She takes a seat in the corner of the café, and pulls out a small hand mirror. She looks longingly into the mirror for what seems like several moments, before a frown slowly takes over her face, and she bitterly wipes the scarlet lipstick away with her hand. Her hand is now smudged with red, and she closes the hand mirror and tosses it onto the table. Her eyes refuse to look back at it. You're curious as to what went wrong with her night now, as well. You can tell, she is unhappy. She is sorrowed by something. You hear a loud, unpleasant roar from outside, and see the car that dropped her off, speeding down the street. The tail lights blinding in the contrast of the night, reflecting off the street, enswathed with puddles. The barista now takes her drink order, writing into a small, flip notebook. The barista walks away, and the woman in the red dress sets her pack of cigarettes on the table. She slides them just as far onto the table as the mirror.

 You almost tune out the sound of the coffee grinder, too engrossed with everyone else in the café, and what they are all thinking. The barista pours the hot water into the press, and leaves it to steep. She begins sweeping the remains of coffee grounds off the counter, her short brown ponytail flailing with each swift movement. On the surface, she is the most boring one in here, human, working a job that quite plausibly only pays for her really small apartment in the city, so she has to take the crowded train to work. She probably grew up in some small town where their biggest attraction just happens to be a pub that has three slot machines, and sells booze and cigars. At first glance, she doesn't strike anyone as overly exciting. However, you know otherwise. You are a regular here, and you watch everyday as her job has her flitting about the place for hours. She is the most interesting one of all, because she is the diary of The All Night Bean. She has spoken to every single person who frequents the establishment, they have all told her their story, she knows why everyone's mind is stirring at this time of night, and you would love to pick her brain. You hyper focus the detail of everyone that comes in, just to maybe get a taste of what it is in their life they're avoiding, or running from. You know you shouldn't want to pry into everyone's personal lives, but at a midnight café in which patrons only visit with hardships and tragedy, you can't help but to feel invasively intrigued.

You hear a clinking noise. You notice a jar on the coffee bar that wasn't there before. It has money in it. It is not full, but it could probably get someone a cheap motel room. The barista slides it to the man who wore the fishing cap. His eyes light up, but he tries to shove the jar back at her. She pries the lid off, and dumps the money on the table. She stuffs it into a small fabric bag with a drawstring, and sets it in front of him. He stares at it, unable to do anything else. She is giving him a very stern look. He takes the fabric bag in his hand, and stands up from the counter. He offers her a gratuitous bow, and retreats from the café. The barista sets upon a shelf behind her, the jar, which you can now see says 'tips'. You watch the man making haste to his car, trying to shield himself from the weather. His car is packed full of possibly everything he owned, you guess, anyway. As he drives off, you see something glinting in the warm light on the counter where he sat. It is a silver ring, small, and stark. The barista had noticed, and made no effort to chase after the man, he had left it on purpose.

You really long to just have a moment with the barista, but you know it is only a wish, and a wish alone. She never acknowledges you, she never speaks to you, she doesn't ever look at you. No one seems to, ever. It always seems like people are seeing through you. It is as if you blend in to your surroundings, not particularly worth anyone's time or curiosity. You are saturated with curiosity, but you interest no one.

The flicking tail of the seemingly wealthy madam in the red dress, can be noticed from the corner of your eye. Her drink is sat in front of her by the barista, and she holds a long hoodie up to her. She only stares at it. You can tell her eyes slowly start to fill with tears, and you only notice now that they seem swollen, and smudged with a deep, charcoal black. She had been crying earlier, before she had stepped foot in the café. She takes the olive coloured hoodie, and retreats to the back of the café behind a frosted window, separating the seating areas. You observe her silhouette remove the floor length, glittery dress, and she emerges once more wearing the hoodie. It just reaches her thighs, and even with her legs still exposed, you feel she looks as though she's never been more comfortable. She returns to her seat at the front of the café, and her body collapses into the arms of the barista. She is sobbing, and the barista offers her a couple pats on the back, before the embrace is over. The slender woman grips the dress she wore in her tightly clasped hand, and suddenly tosses it in the trash can beside the coffee bar. She reclaims her seat, picks up her drink in her hand, and begins staring out the window. A single deep breath expands her small ribcage, and she smiles.

You can hear a kettle boiling, and the low hum of a machine under the counter, sterilizing the mugs and small dessert plates. A lightbulb in the back needs to be replaced, as it flickers actively. You can still hear the rain, upon the windows and the canopy outside. Everything is shiny from rainfall, and the tram smoothly passing by outside looks cleaner than it's ever been. There are small birds, resting underneath the café canopy above the window, they too, came to the night café for a reason, although it is a lot more obvious that it is the shelter in which they seek. There is a twisting black iron staircase behind the counter, that only makes you think there is even more to the café that even you could wonder. You sometimes hear noises from upstairs, but you have never seen anyone else but the barista in the brown ponytail, who seems to become slower and slower over the course of the night. You've seen her when the shop closes, when the sun starts to come up. It seems as if she is heavy, as though she is ailing when she climbs the stairs after the night. You have felt yourself concerned before, as these symptoms do not depict human wear and tear, to you. You have seen young, and you have seen old, you have even seen sick, but this, you know, is different. You have long accepted the fact that you might never know, and have stopped trying to win the frustrating fight with time. You only have so many hours, and maybe if you had cared more about those and their challenges' when you were alive, you wouldn't be cursed with this afterlife of eternal ignorance.