The Diner

By Elena Newton-Day

I saw her sitting all alone. Only an empty chair as company. Her straw-colored hat drooped with melancholy, and her pine green jacket hung loosely like leaves ready to be blown away.

Even though my diner sat hot with commotion, her jacket stayed on. Perhaps because the commotion never touched her solemn corner. She swept her gaze around the diner. Stopping as her eyes landed on me. I recognized the dull brown. They had once been a bright hazel. She did not look up again.

Not when I brought her coffee. Coffee which she held in an ungloved hand, never touched her rose red lips, simply held stiffly by her slender fingers.

She stared into the cup. her face drawn, her sigh almost audible from across the diner, her eyes squinted at the liquid. As if it held the answer to whatever question she asked, as if it was the answer itself.

And she was too afraid to take a sip. As much as she stared, the coffee never answered her, simply sat stoically in her hand.

Why she chose my diner to sulk, was an unanswerable question. Perhaps she knew who owned it. Perhaps she did not.

The patrons sang with sounds of conversation. But not her.

She sat, never looking up. And did not drink from her coffee cup.