Good in the Greasy Spoon
The table was sticky and her eggs were cold. Vinegar and cooking fat fogged the room, sticking to the condensation collecting on the windows.
Leah bit into the polystyrene cup, leaving indents around the rim. It had been weeks and she still let herself think of him. Her eyes were adrift.
A man stopped at her table, ‘S’cuse me. Don’t suppose you’ve got change for a cup of tea?’
Both his face and his jacket were pale, washed out. Leah looked up. His hair, a curl behind his ear. Leah looked down. Muddy boots, a broken shoelace.
She mumbled, ‘You remind me of someone.’
He watched her move the breakfast around her plate with her fork, ‘Oh, yeah?’
A waitress rushed past with plates stacked high with breakfast. A couple sat on another table nursing coffees.
Distracted, he moved towards them.
Leah stopped him, ‘Wait- please, sit.’
Curious, he slid into the chair opposite her. A fly darted through the space, into the kitchen at the back.
Leah guessed he couldn’t have been older than thirty, ‘Do you have anyone?’
His mouth turned up at the corners, ‘No. You?’
She pulled out a five-pound note from her purse, passing it to him across the table, ‘Here’.
Folding it into quarters, he tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket, ‘Thank you’.
After a few moments, he filled the silence with, ‘Hey, what’s your name?’, but Leah had drifted again. Her gaze settled in the corner and resumed their vacancy, so he gave up and went to order.
When she watched him leave, she felt a pull in her chest. Out of the glass doors, and onto the street, he strode, bringing his cup up to his lips.
A group of lads bumped into him, spilling the drink down his front. He stumbled backwards and then centered himself before shouting at them. Arms open, radiating anger. Words were muffled through the glass but the whole cafe was now watching as the pack turned on him. First a shove. Then kicks, punches, smashing his face harder and harder. Blood burst onto the pavement mixing with rain, tea and cigarette stubs.
A woman to Leah’s right was filming it on her phone. Other customers held each other, clung to their chairs. The pack dispersed.
Leah was the only one to open the door. She stepped over the red streak running into the drain.
She crouched, placing her palm on the back of the man now left crumpled on the floor, ‘It’s over. You’re going to be alright. I’m here’.
His eyes were unfocussed. Tears merged with blood and mucus. Flesh split.
She whispered gently again, ‘I’m here and it’s over.’
‘It’s you.’
She moved closer to the ground, kneeling on the pavement. Without hurting him, she delicately lifted his head onto her lap and tucked a curl behind his ear.
Photo Copyright: © Niall McDiarmid
I think this one has a surprising tone 😊