Poetic Justice

Every town has its secrets. Every cup of coffee held a secret. Every apron, the girls and the boys would put on every morning would harbor a hideous secret by the end of their shifts.

Today, coffee was being spilled everywhere.

When the sun comes up in the morning, and the dawn at night, She is the witness of it all, an endless parade of people coming in and going out, seeking refreshments and warm drinks.

She once overheard a conversation between a young girl (the girl couldn't be older than nine) and the girl's grandfather. He said to his granddaughter: “Life works in dualities. The low and the high tide, black and white, day and night. Life and death.”

He was teaching the little girl a pearl of ancient wisdom.

They were sacrificed anyway. First him, then the girl, because the little devil was stupid enough to come back the next day, looking for him.

As the waiters' eyes turned blood red, She knew it was that time of the day, barely past midnight.

Awful horrors happened at midnight. She always appreciated the subtle change of the sacrifice happening seven minutes past midnight instead of midnight.

The poetic surprise of thinking that you made it past the twelfth hour, only to find out you'd die anyway seven minutes later. Watching the staff as they glanced back and forth between the clock and you, as they waited for the bells to chime and lowered their dinner knives, you breathed out a chunk of air you were holding back in your lungs, thinking you're safe, that maybe they changed their minds.

It takes seven minutes for the evil to strike, one strike for a life to end.

She knew when it started, but the memories were not fond. The brick laid upon the block, it seemed like a human lifetime ago, but the spirit was not always a part of the deal when they had been building Her.

There was a time, sometime during the uproar in the sixties, when a particular group of people, a very specific one, always wearing the same type of clothes, would come in and have their coffee.

A time when the staff looked after coffee, making sure it was not being spilled. Only a couple of waitresses worked at Her. One of them was a splendid angel with a tiny waist and kind eyes. The girl was a bit dull, had no plans for the future, but again, what is there to do in a place like Tennessee?

In a place like Her?

Only serve coffee and second-rate omelets. So She watched the kind waitress, Abigail, to put up with nonsense human behavior the customers threw at her every day. Abigail would often sing along to the tune of Beatles coming from an old radio set on the serving bar. Music was Abigail's passion.

And She didn't mind either. Although it often shook Her walls when Abigail sang, She understood Abigail needed an outlet throughout the day, so She let Abigail screech to that British boyband. No antagonizing, no random broken glass on the floor – Abigail was good, and Abigail deserved good in return.

Abigail used to chat with the neighbor and the best friend Stacey every morning when Stacey would come in for breakfast and gossip.

If Abigail was the moon, Stacey was the sun. While Abigail was merely reflecting, Stacey was shining. Stacey was the most stunning girl that had ever crossed Her threshold. A chocolate pair of orbs framed with almond-shaped eyes, hair as black as night. Stacey's spirit burned brighter than any star could, sun or otherwise.

"Welcome to the 24/7 diner!" Abigail would greet Stacey every morning with the same cheerful attitude. The same acid-washed phrase repeatedly repeated to every customer. And anytime Stacey entered, and She felt Stacey's kitten heel clink on Her floors, She could feel that some of that excruciatingly bright light had been passed down onto Her, carved into her stones and woods.

But nothing lasts, and Abigail's glamorous hopes not to spill any coffee had been shattered April 4th.

She remembered, vividly, most importantly, She experienced it. Stacey's light was no longer there when the kitten heal connected with Her polished floors.

Stacey's light dimmed, destroyed. Abigail watched Stacey sink into the high leather chair, remove the beret and look Abigail straight into the eyes.

She was watching the young woman as well.

“Today was the day that justice died.”

“I heard,” Abigail said in reply, stunned with grief and hopelessness.

She remembered saying to Herself, if only Abigail wasn't always on the premises, Abigail might have seen, not only heard.

But that was the tragedy of it.

So Stacey pulled a pocket knife out of the black buttoned coat and sliced herself open at throat without warning.

She saw Stacey's body fall down on Her floors, and She heard Abigail's feral screams.

Abigail severed the perfect line of not spilling coffee in Her when Stacey cut the life short. Abigail spilled coffee that day by dropping an entire pot and running out of Her screaming for dear help.

Stacey never demanded the sacrifices of Her. Stacey never really talked or asked permission to attach the spirit - Stacey wanted justice, and Justice never asks for permissions.

At least not the one Stacey was serving.

There was not much She could do, Stacey never showed Her anything, only stayed as an omnipresence. No one knew at first, and when they did, it was too late, but whoever joined the staff would always end up as a sacrifice to set up more sacrifices for Justice.

An endless wheel, so Stacey would never run out of justice.

She could only observe as once the kindest, brightest star evaporated the kindness and light from whoever was chosen by Stacey.

A particular group of people in very specific clothes.

The newbie would take someone down to the basement where all the frozen food and drinks were stored, waited until seven minutes past midnight, and deliver the final blow. Final justice.

Then ended their Life as well until another would come back, the rest of the diner devoid of memories.

Stacey had a few talents. Maybe Justice really did choose a judge, jury, and executioner on Earth and gave Stacey a little magic gift to carry out the sentences and keep up the excellent work.

As far as the seven minutes went, Stacey never gave a hint of the meaning behind waiting seven minutes past midnight. She only guessed it had something to do with Justice's demands.

From that day, April 4th, until today, coffee was being spilled every day.

She was mostly disappointed. She never saw Abigail again but wanted Her name changed from the 24/7 diner to something more tuneful, in Abigail's honor.

It has been too long, fifty years if She counted correctly. Still, neither the people of Memphis, neither Her various owners, ever changed Her name.

She had to make peace with the fact that some things never change.