Once inside, Lydia picked her way through the motley assortment of chairs and tables to where the plain but clean counter stood against the back wall. The woman behind the counter looked up and smiled. "The usual?" she asked, already reaching for a mug.
"Yes please," Lydia said. "Blue mug, thanks."
The barista smiled, putting back the green clay mug she had been choosing and selecting one of dark blue instead. She went to the expresso machine, quickly measuring and combining coffee, milk, and chocolate. "One double-expresso mocha, $1.50, please."
Lydia pulled the money out of her pocket, carefully separating a one and two quarters from the tight bundle of nickels, dimes, quarters, ones, and fives. She laid them on the counter, double-checking to make sure she had it right, before picking up her mocha, nodding at the woman, and walking back outside.
The tables were aluminum and glass, the bevelled kind of glass that some people put into their windows as "privacy glass." It was slightly stained, with water, dirt, and coffee, and had no tablecloth. Inside, the tables were all bright and the chairs interestingly shaped, but the outside tables had matching chairs, aluminum and simply shaped. They looked like the inexpensive outdoor sets you could buy at any Lowe’s or Home Depot – they probably were.
Lydia sat in one of the chairs, across from a chair holding her coat, and held her expresso. She didn’t drink it – not yet. She didn’t raise it to her face to blow it cool, or inhale the rich scent, and she didn’t place it down on the table to leave a small wet ring to show just how recently the mug had been cleaned. She simply held it, the mug warming her fingers past the point of comfort.
The sky was still a bright blue, not a cloud to be seen, and the sunlight streamed through the leaves of the scrawny tree across the street. It would be a maple if it ever grew up properly, and the leaves that grimly held on to the brittle brown twigs were a deep red. The light made them translucent, showing off the green of the few leaves that still lived, and sprinkled down onto the brown crumpled leaves that lay at the foot of the tree. The wind moved the branches of the tree just a little, rustling the leaf-corpses at its base and making the light shift beguilingly. Lydia watched for a while, as the blood-stained sunlight played across the sidewalk, before turning her gaze to the empty storefront across from the café.
Once, it might have been a clothing store, selling clothes not fashionable, but affordable and durable and modest enough for any aged matron. Now the glass eyes were vacant, the lettering on the sign had long rubbed off, and the sign itself hung askew, looking almost wanton in its disrepair. A few of the windows were broken, not in a complete state of disrepair but rather a slight hint of neglect. It was kept fairly clean, with a few leaves blown up to the inside of the entranceway the only true clutter about. The door handles were chained together, securely enough that no squatter could get inside without shattering one of the big display windows. Lydia idly wondered why nobody had yet, but dropped the idea before bothering to come up with an explanation.
Lydia didn’t wear a watch, but she pursed her lips just the same. It had been long enough, she decided, and they’d expect her back soon. With a wistful expression, she gazed into her mug, before raising it to her lips and beginning to drink.
The coffee was just a bit too cool, but it she drank it in small sips just the same. Without breaks between drinks, she downed half of the beverage quickly, then set her mug down on the table for the first time. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a quarter and left it as a tip. The mug she left where it was, exactly half-full.
Standing, Lydia crossed to the other side of the table and picked up her coat. She put it on before she pulled out her money, keys, and ID, transferring them all to the pocket of her coat. Then she buttoned it closed, finally acknowledging the chill in the air, and walked towards the diner.

When she got there, the hispanic dishwasher looked up and nodded, receiving a polite nod back in return. The short-shift cooks ignored her, and the waitresses briefly looked up to acknowledge her presence. Lydia nodded at them all, even if they made no sign that they cared about her entrance in the slightest. She pulled the money out of her coat and put it, and her ID and her keys, into the pocket of her uniform, before hanging her coat on the nail. Careful not to knock into anyone in the crowded kitchen, Lydia passed through to her chair. Once there, she squatted down and picked up her pen and pad, before sitting down and crossing her legs.
The diner would get busy within the next fifteen minutes, but until then, she’d wait.

Despite its unlikely location and unspectacular food, the diner did a rousing business. The food was cheap, the service quick, and the skirts on the waitresses short. Lydia, to be sure, was an exception to that rule, wearing a uniform that was in all respects several sizes to be for her, but she had other strengths. As the mood of the diner grew chaotic, and the noise level rose to an ear-splitting strength, Lydia remained a tiny island of calm. The tables she served always received the right order at the right time, with a polite nod and careful ear for complaints. Every time a careless customer’s elbow jostled her, Lydia’s face grew just a little paler, but she never paused in her service. Whenever a careless yell grew too loud, a slight wince crossed her face, but none but the most observant noticed.
The customers were almost all factory workers, from the food processing plants just a few roads over or from the paper packaging place that, though a ten-minute drive away, didn’t have any decent restaurants nearby and so ended up sending almost all its workers here. They’d stop by early in the mornings, for the breakfasts that they’re wives didn’t wake up early enough to cook, or on their lunch break, for the lunches that they needed the companionship of more than the money they’d save by packing. At dinnertime, those with no urge to return home would stop by, ordering alcohol by the pint and greasy food by the plate, boisterously making noise as late as they dared. The shift breaks were staggered such that there were only ever a few hours that the diner was almost completely empty, with only the occasional schoolkid with no creativity as to what to do when he skipped school, or a confused out-of-towner, or maybe a lonely stay-at-home mom sitting in the pink polyester seats.
The other waitresses, with their heels and makeup and elaborate hairdos, flirted outrageously with the customers. They made small-talk with the women, and sat down in the booth across from the schoolboys, urging them to go back to school. They had a raucous word for every man who hit on them, followed by a gay laugh that encouraged them to come back again and again. Dramatically, they’d roll their eyes and place fists on hips and purse lips, lively banter dropping easily from their mouths.
Quietly, underneath their rowdy confusion, Lydia would go about making sure food got to where it needed to get when it needed to get there, check to make sure that the distracted housewife didn’t leave behind her purse, and that the drunk men didn’t drink more than they ought to. Although any of the other women could do this just as well, and had before Lydia had moved to town, they appreciated her role just as much as she appreciated theirs. Lydia would make sure it was the chicken pot pie and bottle of Budwieser that went Becky’s tray, not the fried chicken and pitcher of Samuel Adams. In return, Becky would cross to the tourist, buoy up his spirits, and give him directions to an affordable hotel in a more attractive part of town.
Usually, it was the other waitresses who men thought they were tipping – paid for their personalities and outrageous jokes and larger-than-life smiles. It all evened out, though – sometimes the men wouldn’t even realize that the girl who served them wasn’t the same as the one who batted her eyelashes and started conversations about the football game, and the waitresses had a very simple method for dividing tips. Whoever was bringing food to the table brought back the money. Though Becky, Sally, and Marge laid their attentions equally on all tables, and Lydia checked all order slips and trays the same, the simple act of carrying the tray was the easiest way to split the money.
Lydia sat quietly, pad and pen in hand and elbows on her knees. It was quiet part of the diner, even when the rest was loud – and though she never slacked off when the diner was full, she would sit here when she needed to count order slips, spending just a few seconds in a little bit of calm. There was probably no acoustic miracle that actually made the chair any quieter than the rest of the building, but it was psychologically so separate – hiding off in a corner, where customers weren’t allowed, a plain wooden chair without a speck of chrome or sticky fabric – that it was as though the sound just wasn’t allowed to stick.
Lydia’s eyes were half-lidded. Her shift would be over soon, right after the early-dinner diners had begun to trickle in.. She had done the night shift once, for a few weeks, but ended up asking to be switched to early morning. At night, Brianna and Molly and Becky would take over, Molly and Becky coming in at lunch and Brianna not ‘till dinner. Lydia would go home in half an hour.
She stood up and went to the kitchen, wrapping knives and forks in cheap paper napkins. She left her pad and pen on her chair.

When 6:30 came, Lydia tapped Molly on the shoulder. Marge and Sally had gone home, Becky was busy, and Brianna cam ein in half an hour.
"I’m leaving," Lydia said.
"Kay," Molly answered. "Oy! Bobby! Pork, not beef, you idiot!"
Lydia picked her way through the kitchen, flattening back against a refrigerator as Bobby came storming out for another of his infamous arguments with Molly. When he had passed, Lydia let her body relax and walked to the door.
Pulling her coat off the hook, she put it on and fished out her money, ID, and keys. Placing them in the pocket of her coat, she buttoned it up the front and opened the door. Closing it gently behind her, she set off down the street. It was still light out, and the streetlights wouldn’t turn on for another hour.

When Lydia got home, only a few lights in the house were on. She looked at them curiously, wondering just why the family downstairs retired so early, before stepping onto the first stone. Her gait awkwardly lengthened, she walked along the side of the house to the back, where she stepped through the dirt to her door.
She pulled her keys out of her coat pocket, putting the larger key into the hole beneath the tacky handle. It was bronze and oversized, one of the curvy sideways-L shaped handles, and it was set at a slight tilt. Grasping the cool metal with her right hand and giving a great jerk to the key with her left, Lyda put her shoulder to the door and pushed it open. It stuck for a few seconds, before giving in with a shudder.
Wiggling the key to pull it out, Lydia shut the door and locked it again from the inside. No light entered the stairwell, but Lydia found the lightswitch by feel and turned on the one bare bulb.
Creaking, the steps led Lydia up to the attic of the building. At the top of the stairs, there was a small landing with another door. Lydia pulled her keys back out of her pocket, selecting the smaller key and putting it into the deadbolt. This door opened smoothly, without a creak or stick. Switching off the light for the stairs, Lydia entered her room.
She locked the door behind her before she turned on the light, and put her keys back in her pocket before hanging her coat on the nail. She bent down to take off her shoes, then padded over to the window.
The sun wouldn’t set for a while.