100-Word Challenge, Day 191-193


 

A photo of a cup of coffee.
Image via Wikipedia

The people in the diner were only a step above the very ones he had been working so hard to help. They worked hard, had their vices and were most likely stuck right where they were. It is a hard climb to get above one’s station in this world, but one little slip and you can fall so far down the ladder that you never stop.

A short, swarthy, little man is staring at me. I think he wants me to lock gazes with him, but I am not in the mood. I know who he is, not personally, but I have seen the look. He stands and walks out of the diner, curiously ignoring me now. He will head place a call once he is outside. Albert will know I’m here.

The same waitress brings my toast and cup of burnt coffee. I try to ask for coffee, but she turns and walks away from my table before the plate stops rattling. A couple of packets of sugar and some tasteless, dry creamer are added to the cup and I choke down my first sip of the day. Something about the coffee scalding my throat and stomach sets off an internal need. I haven’t eaten since we started running and I realize that I am starving.  I devour the soggy toast after spreading a thin layer of grape jelly on it and choke down the rest of the coffee, a poor final meal if things go bad.

I look up at the clock on the wall and note that Albert’s informer has been gone about fifteen minutes. I should get going, but as bad as the coffee is I need a second cup. I wave the waitress over and ask for a refill from the dirty pot she’s carrying. She gives it to me with a tired sigh and manages to spill only a little. It doesn’t taste any better than the first cup, but it satisfies my need for the touch of reality it offers. I place the rest of my money on the table, the tip is more than the bill, and walk out front just in time to see a grey sedan with black windows pull up across the street.

100-Word Challenge, Day 190


 

Diner
Image by moriza via Flickr

The diner is dark and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke permeates every corner of the place though smoking has been banned from restaurants for four years now. I slide into a booth and pretend to look at a menu. A chubby young waitress steps up to my table and asks what I’d like to eat. I tell her and she stand there, like she is waiting for more. When I say nothing else she sighs and walks away. I trace my finger through the thin layer of grease on the table. The same grease has probably been pushed around by a filthy rag every day for years.