To The Bone by John Whitehouse

It was close to midnight and the diner was empty of customers when headlights swung into the parking lot. They whipped in fast, off the county highway and Dana heard the squeal of brakes on the gravel out front. She looked up from behind the counter and peered through the window. A man and a woman climbed out of a dark sedan. They looked to be in their mid to late forties and were bundled up in winter coats and mufflers, the woman carrying a big fancy leather purse.

The late November wind came into the diner with them, howling like a lost thing and Dana felt its icy cut. The man clumped to the counter, leaving the woman to close the door. Dana noted his handsome features were a mask of barely controlled rage.

‘Coffee,’ he said, his voice hard and angry, like his expression.

‘Sure thing. Two coffees.’

‘One coffee,’ he said. ‘Let her order her own.’

The woman had come up on his left, but sat so there was a stool between them. She was nice-looking in a made-up, city way, her flaming red hair neatly coiffured. Her face, too, was thunderous.

‘Black coffee,’ she said.

Dana felt a prickle of unease. There was a kind of savage tension between the couple. She could feel it like static electricity. She reached behind her for the coffee pot and mugs.

‘I’ll have a ham and cheese sandwich on rye bread,’ said the man. ‘Make it to go.’

‘Yes, sir. How about you, ma’am?’

‘No. I don’t want anything to eat.’

Dana poured out the coffee and set the two mugs on the counter. The man took his, swung around and stomped over to one of the tables. He sat down and blew into the mug, using it to warm his hands. The woman caught up her mug and took it to another of the tables, two away from the one he was sitting at.

Dana went to the sandwich board, got out two pieces of rye bread and spread them with butter. The stillness in there had a strained feel. Outside the wind raged, hammering at the windows. While she sliced ham, Dana watched the two of them at the tables, him drinking his coffee in quick angry sips, her sitting with her hands fisted in her lap, the steam from her cup spiraling up around her face. Well off married couple, thought Dana, and they’d had a hell of a fight over something.

Dana had owned the diner for thirty years and she’d seen a lot of folks come and go, some with all sorts of marital problems. But she’d never seen anything like these two. That tension between them wasn’t anything fresh-born, wasn’t just the brief and meaningless aftermath of a squabble. There was real hatred on both sides, the kind that builds and builds, seething over long bitter weeks or months or even years. The kind that’s likely to explode someday.

Dana finished making the sandwich and plastic-bagged it. Just as she slid it into a paper sack there was a loud banging noise from across the room that made her jump. It sounded like a pistol shot. But it was only the man slamming his empty mug down on the table. He stood up and, without looking at the woman, said to her, ‘You pay for the food.’ Then he headed towards the rest rooms at the rear.

The woman got to her feet and came over to the counter. A cold light glowed in her eyes. ‘Is his sandwich ready?’

Dana nodded and made herself smile. ‘Will that be all?’

‘No. I’ve changed my mind. I want something to eat, too.’ She leaned forward and stared at the glass pastry container on the back counter. ‘What kind of pie is that?’

‘Apple.’

‘I’ll have a piece of it.’

Dana turned back there, got the pie out, cut a slice and wrapped it in waxed paper. When she came around with it the woman was rummaging in her purse, getting her wallet out. Back in the restroom area, Dana heard the man’s hard, heavy, steps. A second later he appeared. And headed straight for the door.

The woman said, ‘How much do I owe you?’

Dana put the pie into the paper sack with the sandwich, and placed the sack on the counter. ‘That’ll be twelve bucks.’

The man opened the door. A river of icy wind came flooding in. He went right on out, not even glancing at the woman or Dana, and slammed the door shut behind him.

The woman laid a ten dollar and a five dollar bill on the counter. She caught up the sack, pivoted, and started for the door.

‘Ma’am? You’ve got change coming.’

The woman didn’t look back and she didn’t slow up. The pair of headlights came on out front, cutting bright cones through the darkness. Dana watched the woman stride over to the sedan and climb in. Above the shrieking of the wind the car started up with a low throaty rumble. There was the ratcheting voice of tires spinning on gravel. The headlights shot around and probed out toward the county highway.

Dana had never been gladder or more relieved to see customers go. She picked up the money and moved over to the cash register. As much as she wanted to forget the two of them, she couldn’t seem to get them out of her mind. Especially the woman.

As Dana gathered up the coffee cups they’d used she kept seeing those eyes of hers. There had been cold hatred there. She kept seeing her lean forward across the counter, staring at the pastry container. And she kept seeing her rummaging in that big leather purse. Something funny about the way she’d been doing that. As if she hadn’t just been getting her wallet out.

A chill ran down Dana’s spine.

She ran back behind the counter. Maybe the woman had done what Dana had suspicioned, and maybe she hadn’t. Dana didn’t keep an inventory on the slots of utensils behind the sandwich board.

She stood there, listening to the screaming wind. The cold sharp edge of it could cut into bare flesh, cut straight to the bone.

Just like the blade of a knife.     

John Whitehouse

Image: Interior of an American diner with booths and stools against the counter. bottles of sauce, red benches and all the stuff that belongs in such a place. From pixabay.com