I was sitting in Phil's Diner over on 34th Street, reading the afternoon edition and nursing my fourth cup of coffee; one cream, two sugars. The cold rain was rolling down the window of the decommissioned railroad dining car, causing the lights on the street to warp into funny shapes. It was almost like the beginning of that old show, The Twilight Zone, where the images warped and waved about before coming into focus.
Every once in a while the street outside was illuminated by the bright flash of a lightning strike. At these times, I almost half expected to see some scary looking gremlin looking in at me through the window, just like in that episode with William Shatner flying the red-eye. Instead, I saw a small group of winos huddled in the doorway of the old, boarded up Carmine Theater across the street. Several letters still clung to the marquee. However, there weren't enough to tell me what last played there. Memories lost by an old, run down, decrepit building.
I smiled a little to myself, amused at the thought, "That poor building is just like me."
Sixteen days of my life were missing. They had happened two years ago and I couldn't remember a thing about them. The frustrating part was that those sixteen days changed my life. No. Scratch that. They tore my life apart.
A peal of thunder rolled overhead, shaking me back to reality. Rattles came from the stacks of plates on the counter and I could see little circular ripples on the surface of my drink.
I looked around the diner. During the day, the 24-hour diner was a pretty busy place, but at 3 a.m. there weren't many patrons. There was an old woman in the corner booth talking to herself while munching on a piece of wheat toast. Every once in a while, she would glance over at the entrance as if she were expecting someone to come through the door. A balding man sitting at the breakfast counter, his bulk spilling over the red vinyl stool, shoveled in a double order of "2s"; 2 pancakes, 2 eggs, 2 sausages or bacon. On the stool next to him lay a cane that he obviously used for walking. I had to wonder if it would truly hold him if he had to put all of his weight on it.
The waitress, Estelle, topped off the man's coffee cup as he grunted his thanks. She then looked my direction questioningly, wondering if I needed a refill. I waved her off and went back to reading how badly the Pit Bulls were doing this season. Normally, minor league baseball was essentially an excuse to go out and get drunk with a bunch of your friends. With the way the dogs were playing this year, it was a piss poor excuse.
I took a drink from my cup as I lowered the paper to turn the page and nearly blew coffee out my nose. "What the...!" I blurted.
Sitting in the seat across the table from me was a young woman. She was soaked head to toe from the rain which only served to enhance her striking beauty. Her eyes were such a deep blue they were almost a shade of purple. From behind the rain-slick gatherings of black hair plastered to her forehead, she looked into me with those eyes, right to my very soul and said in a soft voice, "You don't belong here."
I blinked, confused. "What?"
The woman broke off her gaze, looked down at her wet clothing, then scanned the room around her. "I'm sorry," she said, seemingly embarrassed. "Do you mind if I sit here?"
"Not at all," I replied. "You just startled me, that's all. I didn't hear you come in or sit down."
"Yeah, I do that sometimes," she said with a giggle. She grabbed a napkin from the holder on the table and wiped the rain that was dripping down her cheeks and off her nose. "I got caught in the rain and ducked in here. You looked like a nice man so I sat down." A concerned look came across her face. "I hope I'm not being too forward."
"Oh, no," I said, smiling. "It's been a good, long while since I've engaged in any decent conversation. Half the time, I'm afraid I'll end up like that poor woman back there." I indicated the woman in the corner behind me. She looked over my shoulder and then back at me.
"Why? What's wrong with her?" she asked.
"What's wrong with her? Why, she's cracked. She's always talking to h--"
"Herself" is what I'd started to say but when I craned my neck to look at the nutty crone, she was no longer talking to herself. In fact, it seemed she was looking at the young lady across from me. She had this sort of serene look on her face. I couldn't tell for sure, crazy people are hard to read.
"Never mind," I said, turning back around. Then I was struck by a thought. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, where are my manners? Can I offer you a cup of coffee? You must be freezing in all that wet stuff."
"Yes, please. That would be nice."
I caught Estelle's eye and motioned for a second cup for the young lady. I then took the occasion to actually look her over. She was wearing almost all black, at least on her torso. She had a black spaghetti strap cami on over a black lace bra which barely peeked out over the top. Over this, she wore a cropped fishnet shirt that had gauntlet-style sleeves. The neck was large enough that one side had slipped down off of her right shoulder and the left sleeve was missing the little ring at the end that her middle finger would go through. This one, instead, hung from her wrist as she sat holding her elbows. I've never been a huge fan of the "goth" look, but she wore it as if it were made for her.
The young woman dug in her large black denim purse for a mirror so she could touch up her running makeup. Finally finding a small, heart-shaped compact, she began to primp herself in it.
I was watching a drip from one of the strings of her hair make its way down over her chest, following the curve of her cleavage when my sight-line was broken by Estelle setting the coffee cup down between us. I looked back up at her face and found her looking at me over the top of the compact with a knowing smile.
"Aw, cripes," I thought. "I'm busted." If that were the case, however, she either didn't say anything or didn't mind in the first place.
She leaned forward, picked up the coffee cup by the little ring-hole handle and gingerly took a sip. Finding it not so hot as to burn her mouth, she took a mouthful, closed her eyes and leaned her head back, allowing the hot liquid to run down the back of her throat. I watched, enraptured, as her neck moved with the swallow, thinking how gorgeous that neck was. Every movement was exquisite, every muscle sublime in its tone and definition. I honestly had visions of kissing that neck, of licking it slowly from her collarbone to her jawline until a moan would come out of it.
As the woman brought her chin back down, her tongue snaked out, slowly licking her upper lip and then her lower. As it returned to its starting point, her tongue pulled her bottom lip inward where she delicately bit the edge of it. When her eyes opened, it was the perfect picture of wanton lust. She honestly looked as if she had just had an orgasm.
