nighthawks

it is 3 a.m. walking the now abandoned streets of the city, the flickering lights of a dim neon sign catch my eye. i cross the street to the all night cafe, eager to get out of the cold. the tiny cafe is tucked between a laundromat and computer repair store that appears to have been shut down. a faded "for lease" sign hangs crookedly in the store's display window, giving it an air of despair. i pull open the door of the cafe, accompanied by a draft of icy air. a few somber customers turn at the tinny door's chime before disinterestedly turning back to their rapidly cooling coffee. it is warmer than outside, but not by much. cold seeps in from the aged window seals, filling the place with a chill. i stand in the doorway, surveying my surroundings. i am aware immediately of the cutting silence, only broken briefly by the ruffle of a newspaper page turning or a spoon clinking against a china cup. i walk to the counter where the barista slowly shuffles about, his shoulders slumped and eyes hooded. he takes my order and i climb on to a cracked red vinyl bar stool, absentmindedly swiveling from side to side in my seat. i watch the barista silently pour coffee into a cup for me, steam swirling off of it and dissipating into the air. i notice the lines etched into his face, forming trails and valleys that transform his face into a weathered monument. he is the one who needs coffee, i think as he slides the cup across the counter toward me. i stare into the quivering liquid, i see my reflection, i see coffee grounds drifting along the bottom of the cup. i'm not sure why i ordered it. i drink it anyway, putting it to my lips and taking a large gulp of the scalding drink. it's as crappy as i imagined.