The security camera couldn't hear what they were talking about; the only sound it knew was its own electric hum.
That sound hadn't always been there. It had grown slowly over the years as the camera peered at the front door of the diner, similar to how the outlines of the window frames and the chestnut tree had etched themselves into the small black and white surveillance screen that was hidden in the managers' office. There were no shadows of the tables and chairs, though, as those were frequently moved about by both staff and patrons. The hum had settled deep inside the inner ear of the camera, and no one cared enough to bother finding out where it came from, whether it was harmful, or what it meant.
No one else heard the words of the boy and girl, either. Not long after their arrival, all patrons and staff fled, and the pair had the diner all to themselves. Picking up a tray of abandoned food on the way, the two teenagers sat down on plastic chairs at a plastic table where they spent the next fourteen minutes in silence, occasionally eating one of the now cold French fries.
Perhaps they've been here before. One chocolate milk, one orange juice and two kids' meals with cheap plastic toys. Little monochrome faces that flash by on the screen in the office, like so many others. If a world like that ever existed, surely no trace of it remains now. The video tapes are erased every day.
Sixteen minutes and eleven seconds: the boy starts to talk. The girl frowns, a milkshake in her hand. She seems to be looking at something beyond him. He languidly picks up his last fry and throws it at her, a smirk on his face. It bounces off her denim jacket and falls to the black and white tiles. She doesn't seem to notice. The smirk fades from his face as he stands up, shoving his chair backwards with an irritated gesture.
He paces angrily back and forth for twenty-six seconds, waiting for a reaction that doesn't come. Frustrated by her silence, he begins to yell at her. Without sound, it's like an imitation of a quarrel.
He reaches into the left pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a gun. Holding it with both hands, he slowly aims the barrel at her head.
She looks up now, a frown still on her face, and pushes the gun out of her face with an impossibly quick and annoyed motion. Her chocolate milkshake topples over; oozing over the smooth plastic table, dripping down onto the floor. The gun has disappeared into the leather jacket again by the time the girl rises, and together they walk out through the sliding doors of the diner.
Two minutes later, most of the chairs are a sticky molten mess, slowly spreading across the tiled floor, a plastic glacier. The metal arm supporting the surveillance camera slowly sags, so that for the first time ever, the little TV screen shows a different scene. Then the camera also fails, and the little screen in the managers' office fades to black. Only the worn in grey lines of the chestnut tree remain.
