A Small Abandoned Reality

Samantha had been at the same corner table of the greasy spoon since six in the morning.

It was eleven twenty-three, post meridian, Pacific Time Zone. On the big, boxy television on the other side of the room was what Sam understood to be an “advertisement” for something. A lone figure with red, electric eyes and clad in leather emerges from the darkness as a deep-voiced narrator says,

“In the twenty-first century, a weapon will be invented... like no other...”

Suddenly, Sam was stirred from her reverie. 

“Can I get you some more coffee, hun?” The friendly and gaunt, but tired, waitress asked across the diner. It was in the classic fifties style with checkerboard tiles on the floor and red velvet chairs around the bar.

“Uh, sure.”

“Just seein’ the sights?” The waitress, June, asked.

Sam wondered what June was doing here. Wondered if June worked there her whole life.

“Yeah, heh, sorry. I hope it’s okay that I sit here a while - had a long trip.”

“Sure hun. Mind if I ask where you’re from?”

Sam stared out the broad windows to the empty parking lot and the empty world outside. It was like an abandoned reality out there, Sam thought to herself, and June hadn’t gotten the memo.

“Hmm? Sorry?” Sam asked, fiddling with the hot coffee in her hand. It was extremely bitter.

“Sorry, sweetie, nothin’,” June said, going back to her bland duties. The experienced waitress watched Sam choke down cup after cup of coffee, forcing herself to drink for seemingly no reason.

Sam kept checking her watch over and over again and nervously looking outside. June was accustomed to drifters and wondered if the young woman with red hair in the corner booth, wearing a tattered dark green coat and sweatpants was running away from home or something.

Probably none of her business.

The day wore on and the mysterious customer was content with drinking coffee until noon, when she changed her order to something called “Cook”.

“You mean ‘Coke’?” June asked politely.

“Yeah, yeah, sure June. Uh, may the force be with you.”

June blinked, smiled, and nodded. “Sure, hun.”

June went back to her station and watched Sam with the same concern that an aunt would watch a troubled niece.

Sam took her journal out of the breastpocket in her large coat and checked her notes again. Writing in code helped ease her nerves - to anyone from this time period it would’ve looked like doodles.

Sam also checked that her special friend was still there too.

And fully loaded, just in case.

Sam could feel her heart beating hard as she scanned the empty, obsolete diner. Was it the damned, bitter ‘coffee’?

Was it something else?

She could feel herself becoming more and more nervous as she checked her watch.

June - the chef and waitress and co-owner - could wait as long as the girl could. Sam seemed nervous, which June interpreted as normal. It was normal to feel lost here. June felt lost here.

June opened the cash register and checked the receipts as the evening began to creep over the desert. Sam was still there - huddled in the corner and becoming more and more agitated as time passed.

“Hey girlie,” June said.

Sam jumped. “Oh, heh - hey June. May the force be with you.”

June chuckled half-heartedly. “Uh, yeah, may the force be with you too I guess. I just noticed you’re a little... nervous. You doing okay? We women need to stick together. I just wanted to make sure you’re feelin’ safe.”

“Oh, oh, sure. I’m feeling okay. I’m just waiting for someone.”

June pointed at the thing on Sam’s wrist. “Hey, nifty watch.”

“Heh, thanks. Yeah, I’m fine.”

June nodded, grinned, and gently tapped Sam on the shoulder. “Okay. Just so long as you’re all right. Oh! Are you drawin’ somethin’?”

Sam stopped her instinct of covering up her journal. “Heh, I’m just doodling June. Things I do to calm myself down.”

The older woman glanced at what Sam was doing and felt a shiver before returning to the kitchen. After a few scrubs, she could hear the telltale drips of rain echoing through the oven top fan. Sure enough, opening the back door, a rainstorm had decided to come through.

Not just a rainstorm but a blustering that June hadn’t seen since her childhood in Maine. The rain, nearly horizontal, was plastering itself against the yellow siding of the old diner.

Heading back into the dining room, she saw Sam still in the corner booth, no longer drawing in her diary but rather wrapped up in her coat and huddled with her knees to her chin.

June had decided that Sam wouldn’t be able to pay and so - around eleven that morning - had written it all off. Wouldn’t be the first time, wouldn’t be the last: nifty watch or not.

Sam looked at the time on the old clock on the opposite wall.

Six-fifty, post meridian.

She shuddered.

The diner was shuddering too as the storm slammed against the tall windows. It was like the world itself was raging against the meeting that was about to happen.

Sam started drawing the diner, stopping short of drawing the clock on the opposite wall. Instead, she drew the infinite checkerboard floor. Sam felt like dropping to the floor and writhing, explaining to June what was happening, dancing, ripping her eyes out, cutting her tongue out. Dying.

Six-fifty-four, post meridian.

Sam caught her breath and stopped herself from pulling out her long red hair. At least the nosy waitress was gone, or at least out of sight.

Six-fifty-eight, post meridian.

The rain was rattling against the window now, as if things were starting to not add up. As if the world could tell something was very wrong. Sam should have felt proud: she had outsmarted everyone else. But she felt as though she was killing something sacred.

She felt like the fox killing the sacred hare of the forest, and that its eyes were staring up at her - pleading as she drew her fangs.

Seven exactly, post meridian.

June peeked around the corner and saw that some kind of long, black limousine had pulled up into her humble parking lot and that the girl with the long red hair jumped up and ran out into the pouring rain.

The bell rang and the girl ran out to the car, the door of which opened for her, and disappeared into the night.

June blinked as the rainstorm slowed and slowed and then stopped. Streams of water rushed past the building as the ground of the desert could not absorb the onslaught of water quick enough.

The telephone rang. It hardly ever rang. 

June answered with a polite “hello”: it was the man who co-owned the diner with her.

“Oh, hey Mr. Forma. ...What? Yes, there was a young lady here. ...No, a car came and picked her up. ...Okay, you have a good night as well.”

The receiver clicked and June found herself staring into the darkness outside the windows of her little diner.

Suggested reading: https://veilwinter.com/f/the-history-of-the-future?blogcategory=blog.reedsy.com