He is not alone. The woman he’s with is tall, frail-looking, and short white hair. Not from age, though, at least I don’t think. She stands near the door, which is near the counter with the cash register, and watches me closely.
He walks with deliberate pace, each stride precisely as long as the last. He doesn’t blink. I do.
As he sits, he pulls a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and it makes a slap as it falls to the table. He motions toward them, but I decline. As soon as he pulls a smoke from the pack, the waitress tells him there is no smoking. She tells him this as she is pouring coffee in the empty cup in front of me.
He never takes his eyes off me.
He lights the cigarette.
The waitress pours coffee into the empty cup in front of him.
She pulls the cigarette from his lips and drops it in the coffee cup in front of him. She is proud of the hissing sound. He looks down at the soaked cigarette and ruined coffee, and then looks up at the waitress. He still hasn’t blinked. He tells her that his friend by the door may like a slice of pie. As the waitress walks away towards the front door, he removes another cigarette from the pack, lights it, and inhales deeply.
His partner talks to the waitress. She seems very imposing. I have not met her, but I am afraid of her. She stares deeply into the waitress’s eyes for what couldn’t have been more than seconds.
He blows smoke in my face as he stares at me. I do not cough.
The waitress returns, and I can see that her left eye is painted red, like all the blood vessels in it burst all at once. She looks at my guest, and looks at me, and asks us if we would like more coffee.
No comments:
Post a Comment