The man had been sitting in the coffee shop in the corner booth for hours. He had his collar up and slouched into his tan oversized coat, accepting a top off anytime the waitress came to check on him. He watched the window and the door anxiously, as if he were waiting for someone. But the hours kept flipping by and no one came.
It was slow so late at night, giving the bored cook and waitress ample time to wonder about the man. He didn’t seem homeless or a junkie, of which they got a lot. The diner was in a rough neighborhood and was open twenty-four hours, so it got all sorts in the wee hours. The waitress wondered if he was recently released from a psych ward or hospital. He looked clean enough and his coat, while rumpled, wasn’t dirty. He was in his mid-thirties with a gaunt face and watery gray-blue eyes that were distractingly large and clear. His hair was close-cropped and he chewed his nails to the quick, gnawing his fingers in an absentminded way. He drank the coffee with unsteady hands and left spills all over the table.
It was his jumpiness that made the waitress a little nervous. Whoever he waited for he seemed afraid of…
Around two am, a few drunk party kids rolled in after the last call. There were a few bars and clubs nearby and they occasionally got the overflow as they emptied out for the night. The partiers ordered fries and sodas for the table and talked loudly. One of the women had a very loud, braying laugh. At three am, a homeless woman came in as the rowdy group was settling up their check. She was a regular who lived in an alley a few blocks down. She ordered a coffee and some toast and paid with crumpled bills and change. She often used the bathroom to get washed up. They let her, as she was a paying customer and she was harmless all things considered. Besides, at this time of night no one minded.
Eventually, she left and it was just the man in his booth. Four am. Outside, the sky had lightened in increments as morning crept in. That’s when a striking woman came in and walked straight to the man’s booth and slid in.
The waitress gestured for the cook to come and watch. They were all the more curious because the woman was beautiful and meticulously made up. She wore an expensive-looking long black coat, her brown hair was styled and her makeup was flawless, especially for that time of night. He watched her with his big scared blue eyes, his lower lip trembling as if was going to cry.
They never spoke.
Instead, they stared at each other, unblinking, their bodies both upright and very still. The woman had a small smile on her face when the waitress came over and asked what she would like. The man looked miserable.
“Coffee, black,” she said, never looking away from the man.
Unnerved by the staring contest, the waitress returned and slid two fresh mugs of coffee in front of them both, it was then she noticed the man had a nosebleed.
“Your nose!” the waitress exclaimed and from her apron, she pulled a small stack of napkins. He didn’t respond or look away from the woman.
“Sir?” the waitress said with concern as the trickle of blood intensified to a gush, covering the lower half of his face before dripping off to gather on the table. A puddle was forming, growing larger by the second.
“We’re fine,” the woman said curtly. “Go,”
The man was not fine, in fact his whole body began shaking and blood began pouring from his mouth and nose as his eyes bulged. The waitress backed away in terror as blood seeped from his eyes like tears.
She called out for the cook to call 911. As he emerged from the back, the table was so covered with blood that it ran off the edge in a viscous waterfall. The man trembled and a bloody foam pumped out of his mouth. All the while, the strange woman just sat, statue-still, and watched him.
Then, with a choking gargle, the man fell forward, his head hitting the table with a splat.
He was dead, the whites of his eyes like two maraschino cherries.
Abruptly, the woman stood, smoothing her outfit and walked out, indifferent to the screaming waitress, or the cook hollering that the cops were on their way.
Later, as the dead man was being packed up in his glossy black body bag, the cops questioned the waitresses’ version of events.
They did not believe what she’d seen.
“You’re telling this happened because a lady was staring at him?” The cop said, waving at the gory table, floor and booth.
There was a distinctive heel print in the rapidly congealing blood on the floor.
“See, look there’s proof, that’s her footprint,” the waitress said, pointing to the red footprints that led to the door.
“We don’t doubt what you are saying, miss,” the other cop said, exchanging a quick glance with the EMT, “But you aren’t giving us much to go on, can you remember anything else about her?”
The waitress breathed out in frustration, “No, she was medium height, pretty, brown hair, probably around my height. She had on a black coat and black heels. Her hair was pulled back.”
“Eye color?” the first cop asked.
“I don’t know. I really didn’t get too good of a look at her. And they didn’t talk, they just sat there silently until his nose started bleeding. But he’d clearly been waiting for her all night.”
The cop closed his notebook and sighed, “Great, thanks so much.”
“How will you solve this?” the waitress asked.
“We will have to wait for the medical examiner’s report, but honestly? This was probably a massive hemorrhage.”
“Can a hemorrhage make you bleed out of your eyes and nose!?”
“Yeah, some can believe it or not.”
“She killed him somehow, I’m sure of it.”
“How could she? You said to yourself he didn’t have a sip of the coffee while she was at the table and you never saw them touch.”
“They wouldn’t break eye contact even when he started bleeding.”
The cop shrugged, “I’m sure you’ve seen your share of weird stuff working a night shift at a diner like this. We will do an autopsy and get a tox report. Let us know if the lady comes back.”
Eventually, the cops left and gave them permission to clean up. But the waitress had no intention of touching the bloody booth for five dollars an hour plus tips. She watched a fly land in the congealing puddle of blood and take a drink. All around her the air smelled meaty and metallic and outside the sky was blue and the sun was bright.
Victoria Dalpe is an artist and author based out of Providence, RI. Follow her on instagram @victorialdalpe