The brewing of fresh coffee could hardly be heard over the indistinct murmuring of rain outside. Daylight had long ago seceded power to the steely clouds, the night was slowly sending aid to the sky in the form of dark blues and obsidians. The oncoming colors of dusk did nothing for the dimly lit diner. A light overhead a young waitress kept flickering before settling to a soft sepia.
Young and already washed out this young waitress kept staring at the clock on the far wall before her. It was stuck at 3:13, it had been stuck at 3:13 for as long as she could remember. She stared at it nonetheless. Dull blue eyes, vacant of passions she willed the clock to move - to show a sign of life. The clock never moved.
In a far back booth - removed from the front door, the kitchen, and close to the bathrooms - sat an elderly couple. They always complained about the peeling vinyl of the seats; yet, they always insisted on sitting at this booth specifically. The man had an abnormally large nose that was hiding behind a damp newspaper. He had the reoccurring tendency to grunt at every shift of his body. A piping hot cup of black coffee and a half-eaten muffin slathered with too much butter lay before him. He refused to order until he finished his muffin. His wife, who sat opposite him, was also reading. She had an annotated self-help book clutched firmly in both hands. The book wasn't meant to help her economically, mentally, or sexually. 'The Youth of Today' was meant to help the old woman understand her grandchildren better. Her daughter had given it to her with a pleading smile. She simply thought her daughter too lenient and her grandchildren too far corrupted by the liberals. She read the book nonetheless. To her right steamed a cup of water, two squeezed lemon slices and an emptied packet of honey. Her waiter called it 'cheapskate tea'. The couple each flipped a page of their reading material. The husband took a gulp of his coffee ignorant to the biting bitterness that lingered on his tongue. The wife took a sip of her tea ignorant to the sting of lemon and too hot water that lingered on her tongue. They would leave a two dollar tip as they did every time.
At a table located close to the front doors sat a young college student. Highlighted books, spiral notebooks, and a plate with long cold pancakes littered the table. Headphones allowed her to ignore the world as an ill-known band crooned pseudo-somethings in her ear. She felt infinite and intelligent and inspired. The margins of her notebook were decorated with the forms of cats, the roots of trees, and the eyes of people she'd never meet. Her notes were neat and color-coded. They had to be color-coded just as she had to draw at least one doodle in the margins. It was a ritual. Everything in her infantile life was a ritual, though she'd vehemently deny such concept. Yet, her life was a ritual. One large ritual set before her by her parents, placement, friends, strangers, society: A ritual for individuality. She bit the end of her pen, eyes focused on the race of raindrops down the front windows, mind far away from the basic biology in front of her.
In a center booth, on the far right of the diner sat a young family. The mother looked tired: lank blonde hair was thrown into a messy bun, a t-shirt and jeans both two sizes too large, skin cast with a somber pallor, eyes bloodshot. Her hands were the most distinctive feature on her worn body. They were small, once they could have been called dainty, but now they were simply small. Small and rough: rough from numerous dishes, from a house that always needed cleaning, and from nonstop use. Her hands, small and rough, were in constant motion fluttering between a hyperactive five-year-old and a fussy baby. There was no thought to her motions, they were simply actions. She was a gear on the machine that comprised her family, a gear constantly appeasing two squeaking cogs. She found she no longer fit well with the other gear in the family, they would grate against each other, friction too fierce to create productivity. This family produced loud noises, exhaustion, and statistics to the average middle-class American family. The baby screamed, the father flinched at the noise but refused to look up from his phone. Small hands fluttered through the air aiming for peace and silence.
A middle-aged waitress stared at her empty section. The dirty lights overhead illuminated the pockmarked and peeling upholstery of the booths, foam stuffing peeking out from its red encasing. Every dent in the wood of the tables was highlighted, they were marks that sanitation and scrubbing could never remove. For all its imperfections the section could be considered immaculate. Everything was washed down and in order, the salt and pepper shakers brimming full, the sugar dish well stuffed, silverware tucked into neat rolls, the seats vacant of dust and of bodies. And no bodies meant no money for the waitress. She had three kids, one in high school and two in middle school. Her rent was due in a week, a car payment in a week and a half, and other bills had their due dates circled in red in her mind. She felt like the booths, her upholstery was ripped and she had dingy stuffing peeking out. She stared at her empty section and knocked over a salt shaker.
The clock on the far wall claimed it to be 3:13 and night had finally fallen.
A/N: This is only lightly edited so I apologize for any mistakes. Hope you enjoyed!
