Lonely Night for Nighthawks
By Nick Brown

A quarter past midnight the door swings open. The cook, busying himself by stacking glasses, glances at his wristwatch. The late customers are early tonight. Smiling at the paradoxical quality of that statement, he approaches the customer who just sat down at the counter. Setting his fedora down, the man grumbles that he'd like a cup of coffee: black. From under the counter the cook produces a marble white mug and fills it at a cylindrical coffee dispenser, a scent of dark coffee briefly floods his nostrils as well as hot wisps of steam. He slides the mug to the man across the counter who nods and emits a tiny "Thanks," never looking up at the cook. 

The cook was used to this kind of attitude from the late crowd. If you're here at night it's either because you have nowhere better to be, or this is the best place you can go to. He returns to the back of the diner, rearranging cups, glasses, and making sure each pepper-shaker had a twin salt-shaker to go next to. Deciding he'd best leave the gloomy customer alone, he drifts back into the kitchen.

From outside, the diner casts an eerie glow out onto the pavement. An unnatural sickly green pours out from the fluorescent lights, illuminating the corner. Above the diner an advertisement for Phillies Cigars ("Only 5 cents!") is barely visible in the glow. The name of the establishment completely shrouded in shadows. The night: still, dead and lonely. This part of the city was like that, not full of bustling night life like the rest of The City That Never Sleeps. That factor made this desolate block a haven for the less sociable night owls. A night like this was no exception.

Across the street a woman sits with her hands in her lap. She sits on a bench with her eyes downcast, her shoulders sloped and sad. A crisp and steady breeze blows her dazzling red dress, the same red as the lipstick she had smeared on earlier that night. She had run away from dinner with her boyfriend three hours ago and she still has yet to return to her apartment. Now her eyes, puffy and red, are all but out of tears. A cabbie rolls by, catching the woman's attention as she looks up at the dull yellow of the streetcar and then the sick green of the diner lights. Her mouth is agape at who she sees inside.

A second man in a fedora sits down at the counter, at a stool on the smallest side of the triangular counter. He's younger than the first patron, with a big pointed nose like the beak of a bird. The cook peers out of the kitchen sees that he has a new customer, then hurriedly gets up from his game of solitaire and greets his latest guest. This second man with the beak asks for water. A tad surprised at this request, the cook replies "Certainly," grabs another opaque mug and fills it up at the kitchen sink. Sliding the mug to the man the cook said "On the house" and then rolls his tongue around, as if saying something so cliche actually left a bad taste. But he isn't about to charge a man for water. This young man with the beak actually looks at the cook and utters a more respectful thanks than the first customer. The cook notices just how young this new customer is, and how sad and tired his eyes look. As a rule the cook never pesters his customers about their lives, especially not the night crew, but with this man he just had to know. 

With a sober expression, the young man tells the cook his girlfriend ran away after he had proposed at dinner. Shocked, the cook asks why. The man swallows hard before saying he'd been drafted and would be heading for the Pacific in less than three months. She had just found out about it earlier that day. He is very sympathetic towards the man but at the same time is glad he was old enough to not face a draft. Deep down he is even a little glad the man had his potential fiance run away, seeing as the cook never had a wife or even a serious lover. He heads back into the kitchen but not without first reminding his patrons that if they need anything they just have to call for him. 

But before he can return to his game of solitaire the diner's door opens once again and a cool night breeze blows in. Along with it enters a beautiful woman with auburn hair and a short crimson dress. Gliding across the checkered floor she takes the stool next to the younger man drinking the mug of water. The cook walks back out and asks her what she would like, and she asks for coffee with plenty of sugar and cream. For the third time the cook produces a mug from under the counter and fills it with rich black coffee from the countertop contraption and plenty of milky cream and white sugar. Handing it to the woman she expresses her thanks and hands the cook a dime, 3 cents more than a cup of coffee costs at the diner. "The rest is your tip" she assures him. 

Tucking the silver coin in his back pocket the cook notices the woman hasd to be the young man's lover. Slyly, she grabbs the hand of the man next to her and the two give each other a sideways glance. Realizing they'd made eye contact, they avert their eyes and stare down at the table, but their faces start to form a slight smile. The silent, gloomy man down the counter finally speaks, "You two should consider yourselves lucky." He swirls his coffee around in its mug before setting it down. The cook agrees. Then, peering out the window the cook says, "He's right. It's a lonely night for us nighthawks."