Burnt Coffee

The coffee is burnt, but warm. The waitress tries to re-fill, but I cover the cup, smile because she was once beautiful. ‘No?’ She grins, moves to another table. I watch her bend – she knows my gaze has followed - holds it longer for me; it’s fine though, these games. Things are like this. Two police officers have come into the diner, their radios fizz obscenely. The smaller one scans the tables as she twists to remove her wallet. I notice their boots are mired in sludge and snow; part of the second wave taking the search out further eastwards towards Highbank. “Anything?” “Nup. If she’s out there she’s long gone. Some shallow grave.” “God love her.” “Been busy – more'n usual I reckon?” “Aye, a few more. They come in dribs and drabs.” She passed back a few coins. “I hope…well you know.” “Sure.” The news is running, but the waitress has cranked up some old honky-tonk on the radio and is singing softly. The pictures switch between stills of places in the snow: woodlands, gorges, abandoned shacks - back again and then to longer shots of figures huddled in groups, dark shapes fanning out, wading into deep open drifts. “Stonewall Jackson.” She purrs, “I have a thing for old Stonewall Jackson.” Everybody has filtered away, it's just the two of us. Her face is lit briefly by a passing salt truck, oranges distorting the shapes around her eyes, burning, melting her away - agonising deformity – a judgement scene. “I saw him once up at the old theatre in Fivemiletown. He was older then, but boy he was still fine.” She slides into the seat opposite and offers me a cigarette and we sit watching the snow come down, waiting for trucks to rear up out of the darkness. ------------- I expect her to scream as she cums, but she gasps, bites hard on the starchy pillow. She doesn't open her eyes. I finish and roll away, sober now; stumble into the bathroom. When I come back she's dressing, humming the same old song and I don't know if I want her to go. I switch off the television, lie back; cigarettes useless in my jacket pocket hung off the door. I don't want to move. The vodka is down to the spit, but I reach and swig - annoyed suddenly, less forgiving in the grainy light. She's talking about Bob’s shifts at the factory. Picking her daughter up from Dance class. She doesn't have much time. “Are you staying around?” She is fastening her boots, not looking up. I can't decide if this is something she wants or not. To hook up again; or be pre-warned, find me at one of her booths, some distant trouble somehow. “It's where they send me. Where I have to take the load.” There is a rush of air; somewhere below the bass rumble and strain of goods passing through, stopping and starting. “We’re easy to miss; it's just another small town.”