The Dream Diner
by
Cheryl’s shift was quieter than usual. She kept herself busy, humming softly while tucking silverware into folded paper napkins, wiping down booths, then sweeping the diner’s floor. Just past 2 AM, the bell above the door jingled. Her only customer of the night shuffled in.
With coffee pot in hand, Cheryl approached the booth he was settling into, which happened to be her favorite – the one with a perfect view of the intersection and a parkette encircled by an ornate wrought iron fence.
“What brings you in at this hour?” she asked, taking in the man’s grey hair and pallid complexion, the bluish-black smudges under his eyes.
“Good evenin’ … or mornin’? I’ve lost track of time.” he replied, sheepishly. “I was at the hospital.”
“You’re ok, though?” she asked carefully as she filled his mug, knowing exactly what his arrival meant, though like many before him, he seemed oblivious.
“Oh, I feel pretty good. Not like the person I saw the doctors working on. It was all bright lights and beeping. Then I just kind of ended up here,” he said, gesturing around the dimly lit diner.
“That happens sometimes,” Cheryl said knowingly, slipping into the bench across from him. She’d stopped counting how often her late-night visitors witnessed themselves having life-saving procedures without realizing it.
“What if I told you the person you saw in the hospital was actually you?” she asked, gently.
There was that familiar flicker of disbelief, then worry, but he said nothing.
“When doctors try to save someone who’s all alone, sometimes their soul comes here.”
The man placed his hands around the steaming mug before replying softly.
“Like, before they die?”
She nodded. There was a long stillness, and then he chuckled reluctantly.
“Well, that’s certainly something, ain’t it?”
He looked out at the dark street, the flashing light at the intersection intermittently illuminating his lined face. “I remember feeling dizzy and falling. Not much else.” He returned his gaze to her. “But I don’t feel scared. Shouldn’t I feel scared?”
This was a relief to Cheryl. Souls in turmoil couldn’t be easily comforted – over the past 25 years, she’d experienced her share. Just last month a far-too-young factory worker had arrived at that purply time before dawn, after he was pulled straight into machine gears. When the mangled body arrived at the hospital, and his soul appeared at the diner, the fading was horrific.
“It doesn’t have to be scary,” Cheryl replied, pushing the remembrance from her mind. “Let’s make the best of it. I can cook whatever you want. What do you have a hankering for?”
He paused contemplatively, “It’s been so long since anyone’s asked.”
“Do you like meatloaf? Chicken pot pie? Something fancy? Thanksgiving supper!” she added, laughing.
“Oh no!” He exclaimed, his eyes wide. “That’s too much. Coffee’s fine.”
“It’s really no bother,” Cheryl replied.
They sat quietly for some time, looking out the window at the empty intersection, before the man spoke again.
“So. What do folks usually order?”
“Well, it depends. One woman requested her mama’s okra. She was real specific about it. That was tricky, but I was able to get it close enough. And I once baked a vanilla cupcake with rainbow sprinkles for a sweet child who’d been in a car accident…” She broke off, recalling the boy gleefully licking buttercream frosting from his fingers before his soul faded.
“I see,” the man continued. “Does anyone ever ask for something they’ve never had before? Something they’ve only ever dreamt of trying?”
“Y’know…” Cheryl’s gaze turned upwards. “There’s no rule against it that I’m aware of.”
“Well then, I wonder – if it’s not too much trouble, that is – could I have key lime pie? Like the kind you’d get in Key West? Me and the missus always wanted to go, but we never got to make the trip.”
Cheryl clapped her hands together as she shimmied out of the booth. “Pie it is!”
In the kitchen, Cheryl reveled in the diner’s magic. It contained everything she could possibly need – limes, eggs, sugar, graham crackers, and condensed milk. Within minutes, she placed the heavenly pie in front of the man, meringue fluffy and high and golden-brown at the tips.
“This looks better than anything I imagined,” he said reverently, holding out his open palm to her. “Please. Eat with me.”
Cheryl grabbed herself a plate, while the man sliced himself a generous portion. Then he cut an equally large piece for her.
They ate in silence, except for the clinking of forks, savoring the creamy tartness against crunchy crust, while the first signs of dawn revealed themselves. A scraggly tomcat darted into the inky alley next door. The sweet songs of wrens and warblers pierced the lingering darkness. At the same time, Cheryl noticed the man’s form growing ever more faint as he pulled a few bills and coins from his pocket and placed them on the table. She pressed the money back into his hands, then held them, her head bowed. The birds kept singing. Soon the bench across from her was empty, and Cheryl was alone once more.
Eventually, Cheryl rose to place the remaining pie into the display case and ferry the dishes to the sink. As she washed up, she hoped wherever the man ended up was peaceful, though what happened next, she did not know. Over decades, Cheryl had wondered when her own soul might pass on, if her murder would ever be solved. And so, she stayed close to where she’d died, one late night after work in that parkette across the street.
The bell jingled as the morning waitress arrived and flicked on the overhead lights, chasing away the last of the night shadows. Cheryl slipped off her apron, and settled into her favorite spot, until it was time to start her shift once more.
The Molotov Cocktail 