Priam and His Customers

5 • werewolf

werewolf

SO FAR, THE most unusual payment Priam had received was the exact time and date of his death. If you ruled out the bag of human teeth, the jar of Leonardo da Vinci's allegedly preserved heart, a fancy box of screaming chocolates, and the hourglass containing the ashes of an ancient demon, that is.

It seemed unusual enough that the date given was December 13, 1997—the day Priam was born. But he chose not to dwell on it too much because the payment was given on a rush hour. He was much too occupied in entertaining a hoard of customers so it was immediately forgotten as soon as it was given.

"You're not alive, are you?" asked an orange tabby cat. It was perched on the windowsill and seemed to have entered the café along with one of the customers.

"Are we truly even alive?" Priam shot back as he haphazardly maneuvered a tray of drinks to their respective owners. He ignored the looks thrown his way; curious eyes that questioned why he was suddenly talking to himself. "Are any of us significant in this vast universe? We are not even comparable to a single grain of sand in a beach of how large everything is. Centuries later, we will be forgotten just like dynasties and empires that have fallen. We will be at the mercy of time and the memories people hold of us. Memories that will soon fade because people die and with it the memories of us. We are nothing but flotsam in the river of life."

One family enjoying breakfast was unfortunately within hearing range, and collectively mouthed a "What the fuck?" at his direction.

They were ignored.

Priam's words had effectively silenced the cat, though it still regarded him with undisguised suspicion. A girl wearing a crimson school uniform swept it away after she ordered a takeout. Priam waved the cat goodbye.

He sighed and went back to shoving ice shavings into a plastic cup.

A question about his mortality and existence was not a conversation Priam wanted to have so early in the morning. Most especially from a cat. He has orders to make and customers to entertain.

He was also utterly tired. Bone-deep tired.

Downing two cans of Hell first thing in the morning did little to help the headache that he woke up with. Maybe he should have drunk medicine but knew it would do no good. Medicine usually makes his insides melt, specifically the ones given by the witch from the auction. It's an inconvenience when your insides are out in the open as you work, not to mention unsanitary.

It was around 9 AM when the rush of customers died down. Priam was occupied in making drinks for the three people left in line: Fink, who just finished her early morning jog; a loud man who chatted with her one-sidedly; and Sol, whose red hair stood out as he leaned on the counter, absentmindedly drumming his fingers.

Priam held up a drink, squinting at the name he wrote on the cup. "Here's a smoothie for—"

"Oh, that's mine, thank you!" the loud man interrupted and took the cup.

"Wait, that's not for—" Priam trailed, but the man had already sipped from the straw before he could finish his words, "—you... Uh, well... I hope you like fingers in your smoothie, sir."

And that's when the man froze mid-sip, blanched, stared at the smoothie in horror, then proceeded to chuck it to the ground. He began retching once he saw severed fingers poking out the smoothie's spilled contents.

"You drank my smoothie...?" was Sol's weak statement. His lips trembled as sickly, yellow pus started streaming down his eyes; presumably tears. He made the mistake of rubbing his eye too hard and it popped out, dangling by a red vein. "Oops, sorry!"