Nighthawks

"Last call," the man behind the counter joked as he sat my cup of black coffee down in front of me.

I knew it was polite to laugh, or even smile, but I didn't. Couldn't. Not yet. I still had on my slicker and hat. A fedora pulled down low to cover my eyes. To cover what was behind them.

The diner was empty, save me, the man behind the bar and a couple just a few seats down on bar stools. I took out a cigarette and pulled an ashtray closer, where I could reach it. I lit the smoke and it tasted like shit. Tasted the way I felt so I didn't put it out. I smoked it harder, because I deserved this shitty cigarette and this shitty coffee. No cream or sugar to mask the bitterness.

They were completely silent, the man and woman. I sat there and sipped my coffee with no indication that I knew them. They didn’t notice me either. Funny thing how a hat pulled over the brow can make you invisible. They were shaken up, that was for sure. The man behind the counter was making a milkshake for the lady. The lady in red. I would see that dress in my nightmares for years to come. There was a pale ring around the man’s finger, where a wedding band was supposed to be. Same with the lady. She fidgeted with the spot on her finger where her wedding rings usually sat. A subconscious habit of nervousness.

          They weren’t supposed to be together like this, or out there at the top of the hill parked like teenagers. But I saw them, just as I’d seen the other two. A man and woman. She had been running but not fast enough. A man, big and strong, fast. He caught her right near the car where these two had been deep down in the back seat with fogged up windows. The second couple was unexpected; this one was the target for me. Hired by his wife, who had wept openly in my office about a suspected affair. But that concern faded as I hid in the bushes watching someone else commit a far worse crime. None of us had acted, just watched.

          The shame of an affair was the farthest thing from their minds right now. The shame of doing nothing was much worse, and I knew that because I felt it too. After the man had done his deeds and ran off, not noticing the eyes peering from the window and the shadows. I moved quickly to check the woman on the ground. Dress tattered and ripped open. Wounds fresh and glistening in the moonlight like sick rubies. The couple didn’t join me, just watched as I felt for a pulse. It was too late. I looked up at them and they ducked down, hiding still. Shame. So much shame.

          None of us in the diner look at one another, I cough once to see if one of them will look over. She glances at me then does a double take. Her eyes get large but she looks away. The man behind the counter sits her shake in front of her just in time to give her the distraction. I take out the man’s wife’s number scrawled on a piece of paper frantically. I wad it up and toss it in an ashtray nearby and light a cigarette.

          “These things will kill ya,” I say with a chuckle. The man and woman glance at me and quickly look forward again. They don’t laugh or even smile.