It’s easy to lose yourself in small towns.
Particularly, he thinks, in small-town diners. Small-town diners out in seemingly the middle of nowhere; surrounded by nothing but dirt and the occasional tumbleweed, and the highway just outside, though no cars pass now on the long strip of road. It’s the early hours of the morning, and the usually sweltering Arizona sun has long since set, replaced now with the eerie and silvery light of a fingernail-crescent moon. Though normally the place would be more suited to a large oven than a family restaurant, the cool night air provides a welcome respite; the fans spin in slow clockwise circles, and his burger is cold, and his coffee is stale.
It was only when the road ahead of him had become nothing but a dark, sleek stretch of asphalt that he decided to stop. He couldn’t even remember how long he’d been driving; a good six hours, probably, by the look of things. His eyes had burned and ached with the need to fall closed, his lids suddenly heavy, and really, it was lucky the restaurant had come into view at all. If he had kept on driving, there’s no doubt in his mind that he would’ve veered off the road into a sign, or a fence, or a ditch. The flickering blue neon of the restaurant sign – High Road Diner, with two of the letters burnt out – had felt like a gift from God himself in the darkness. Even the empty dirt parking lot and the single, thorny shrub growing amongst the dust seemed heavenly compared to the endless highway.
He glances now to the clock on the wall, which appears to be frozen at 6:13, the second hand stock-still.
The cracked red leather on the stool beneath him creaks slightly as he shifts his weight forward, elbows braced on the (slightly sticky) bar. The single bulb lighting his seat is painfully bright in the otherwise dim atmosphere, and Patsy Cline plays tinny like a headache over the radio.
“You lookin’ for the time?” the waitress asks, her voice light and airy, with the slightest southern drawl. The man drags his gaze over to her and swallows his mouthful of cold coffee; he can feel bitter grounds sitting in his teeth like dirt. The waitress is young-looking, youthful in her lack of wrinkles, dressed in a typical uniform for this sort of work, and she speaks over where she’s unstacking and re-stacking cups, clearly at a loss for things to do.
She must be in her twenties, he figures, at most. Her corkscrew brown curls and wide eyes suggest as much, and he swears she has a touch of acne on top of that. Her pleasant voice holds the hint of a smile.
“Yeah,” the man responds. “The clock’s broken.”
The waitress doesn’t give him the time, instead saying, “Oh, it’s always like that. Stupid thing – reminds me of my ex-boyfriend. Always gotta keep an eye on its hands, and it never gives me the time of day.”
A small smile graces her lips, and he gives her a hollow laugh in return.
“Maybe you should replace it,” he tells her. “The clock, I mean, not the boyfriend.”
“Mm.” She says nothing more for a moment, and her hands shift from stacking cups to wiping down the already clean counter with a towel. The man picks idly at his fries. “What brings you out this way, then? No one ever stops here anymore unless they’re lost – certainly not in the middle of the night.”
He considers his response, and finds that he’s unable to think of a decent one. “Not lost,” he tells her, “not exactly. I was so tired I had to pull over. Lucky I found this place when I did.”
The waitress’s smile fades slightly, but it’s still present, resting like a permanent fixture on her face. “Maybe it was fate.”
“Doubt it. I’ve never believed in anything like that.”
He sucks the salt from his fingertips, and wipes his hands on the napkin tucked under his plate. His fries are gone, his burger three-quarters finished, and all that’s left in the plain, off-white diner mug are the last dredges of coffee, mostly just grounds now. The waitress averts her gaze from his, and he notices she’s looking at the stopped clock.
“I believe everything happens for a reason,” the waitress says idly, glancing to her hands, where the towel is still held, though still now.
All right, he’ll bite. “You think I stopped here for a reason?”
“Well, sure. Everyone does.”
“I think that reason might just be that I was too tired to go on much longer. That’s all.” He thinks about asking for his check, now that he’s nearly finished eating, but it’s oddly nice in here. Perhaps it’s the company. “Ever consider you’re maybe reading too much into things?”
The girl laughs; it bubbles up, vanishes a moment later. “No,” she says. “I meet a lot of skeptics, but no. I’m usually right about these things.”
He gives a soft, thoughtful hum, but otherwise dismisses the idea. It’s silly to think he’d be here for any reason outside of his own exhaustion, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to, even for a few moments.
The radio gives a soft crackle, and the next song plays. It’s the same as before. He listens as the waitress hums along to another rendition of Walking After Midnight.
“Maybe I should get going,” the man considers, but even as he says it, he doubts he’d want to. It’s peaceful here. Still, the waitress humors him, even if he’s sure she can see his reluctance to go.
“Sure.” She takes his empty coffee mug, motions to his plate. “Would you like a box for that?”
It takes only a few moments for him to respond. “Nah, I’ll go ahead and finish it. I’ve got a few minutes, and I may as well wait for the sun to rise. Besides, I hate leaving things half-finished, don’t you?”
“Human nature, I think.” Her ever present smile brightens, and she says, “I’ll be just a second with your soda,” and as she turns toward the soda fountain behind her, he listens to Patsy’s crooning voice drifting over the static.
He sings along, softly, under his breath.
“I’m always walkin’… after midnight…”
As the waitress passes him his glass of Coke, she has no reflection in the liquid’s surface.
And less than a mile from the High Road Diner, a car and its driver are wrapped around a tree.
He sips at his soda, and finishes the lyric, slightly out of tune.
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