Nikolaj Volgushev
You enter the Night Diner and order a coffee.
The pale waitress writes down your order, moving her cracked lips noiselessly as she does. Her fingers are unusually long, her nails painted violet, chipped.
She blinks, asks you to repeat the order.
“A cup of coffee, black, no sugar,” you repeat.
The Night Diner isn’t always there, but when it is, it serves the best coffee in town, or so you’ve heard.
You sit down at an empty booth in the back. It’s so late that it’s almost early. The walls of the Night Diner are the same surreal violet as the pale waitress’ nails.
There is a napkin on your table, the same color as the walls. You pick it up and wipe your mouth with it.
Your lips immediately feel parched.
You crumple up the napkin and toss it aside, but when you look down you find it back on the table, neatly folded. You run your tongue across your cracked lips, but that only makes your tongue dry.
Perhaps you ought to leave the napkin alone now. You decide to pass the time by watching the other patrons.
You quickly regret your decision. The other patrons make you feel uneasy. They are not quite what you would expect. They are not the right shape.
You lower your gaze, fix it on your hands.
They are not what you had expected either. Your fingers are unusually long, your nails painted violet, chipped.
There is a pen in your hand, you are writing down an order.
You blink.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” you ask the patron who only just arrived.
“A cup of coffee, black, no sugar,” he repeats. His voice is both familiar and strange, like hearing your own voice in a recording. The patron walks to the back of the diner, and takes a seat. You mutter his order back to yourself, and put on a fresh pot of coffee.
It’s so late that it’s almost early. You can’t quite remember when your shift started but it must have been a very long time ago. You wait for the coffee to brew, pick at your nails where the violet polish has cracked.
It’s a slow night, but so is every night at the Night Diner.
You pour the coffee into a white mug, chipped on one side, and carry it through the violet stillness.
Your strange, new patron looks up. He has such a familiar face, except his eyes, which are completely empty, void. If it weren’t for his eyes, you’re sure you would recognize him. But you’ve never seen eyes like that before.
He takes a sip from his cup, nods to himself. He even closes his eyes, as though to savor the moment.
“It’s true what they say,” he announces after a brief silence, in a voice that appears to come from no place in particular.
“This is the best coffee in town, the best coffee you’ve had in years.”
He picks up the violet napkin, wipes his lips with it, smiles.
NIKOLAJ VOLGUSHEV‘s fiction has appeared in journals such as the Cafe Irreal, Hoot, Cleaver Magazine, and Cease, Cows. He currently lives in Berlin, Germany, where he writes, programs, and does other things along those lines.