She had to admit; Tuesdays were the worst and consistently the same. The diner was full of sunlight, gleaming off of the vinyl booths, cash register barely moving, and the smell of burnt coffee throughout. Her apron seemed to have more stains; she always smeared her lipstick or had it on her teeth, and she never seemed to forget to get gas before work.
She knew this song and dance all too well, the weekly routine stayed the same. The customers were the same, as well. Mr and Mrs Greenberg came in from around the corner, coming in for an early lunch at 10:45, ordering the Turkey Club, and Cobb salad. Dave the Driver always came in for breakfast, reading his coffee over the newspaper. Penny, the blonde with messy curls and edgy smile, always took advantage of the quiet early mornings and free WiFi, leather jacket curled around her elbows as she typed away in the corner booth on her laptop. Mr. Smith came in, without fail, and sat at the same booth, staying for exactly 1 hour and 15 minutes, she could time it (she had before).
She could understand people knowing what they liked, but it was the same every week.
As she made her rounds with coffee pot in hand, she stopped to smile at the Greenberg's newest picture of their grandchildren, a little girl with cute dimples and black curls. She helped Dave finish the daily crossword (academic conference, "colloquium") and turned towards Mr. Smith's booth. No one really knew much about him, just that he was the type of business man who wore a tie every day, polish black framed glasses which always shone brightly from the sunlight against his green eyes.
"Mr. Smith," she smiled, "How is the business world treating you today?"
He usually loved Tuesdays, but today was hell, literal Hell. His hands were shaking, the withdrawal physically affecting him, standing him on the edge, and making his brain race. He could feel it pulsing through his body, knee bouncing under the shitty plastic table, fingernail tapping against his grey coffee mug. He wanted, needed, to get ahead, to feel, to get his release. He came here every week to think, this diner, the town, was so boring there was nothing else to do except think. Did anyone come to Willowdale to do anything but? His weekly routine brought him here to do his Work, so he could dedicate the proper time to plan, to research, to think.
But he couldn't focus, couldn't choose; who was next? It was the burning question that plagued his mind. In a town full of the sinners, this shouldn't be such a hard feeling, and yet all his work had him at a standstill. He had already picked the obvious choices; the adulterer, the child predator, the sex addicts. He glanced over his notes for the 4th time, reading the research, the gossip, the proof, and his brain came up blank yet again. Where was the needle in the haystack, he had sorted through the lies, the secrets, and the sins. He needed to redeem, in this town of degenerates, hypocrites, and criminals, his work to salvage should be easy, this is what he was meant to do. He was Chosen, inspired to do this, this was his work. So where was the sinner, the next one to be stopped in their evil ways? He needed a sign; to be pushed; to be pointed, he was going crazy. He just needed a sign.
He glanced up at Robin, the sun glinting as he smiled up at her, covering his eyes. "It's a bit of a quieter week for me I'm afraid, business isn't keeping me as busy as I'd like".
She didn't really know what it was he did, but he came here so often that she felt like it would be rude to ask, that waitresses were supposed to know this about their regulars. She nodded, "I know what you mean, my boyfriend works at the bank, and he always complains about how slow it gets after tax season."
He brought his coffee cup up to his lips, and he glanced at her hand holding the pot, "Boyfriend?"
He asked for a sign, didn't he?
She looked down at the gleaming diamond on her 3rd finger, and chuckled sheepishly, "Yeah, if I'm being honest, it's to keep some of the truck drivers away. They can get a little too friendly when I'm not wearing this."
Could this be too good to be true?
"Oh?" He Inquired, "So not planning a wedding?"
Again, she laughed, "No, I keep hoping wearing this on my shifts will encourage him to pop the question, but I guess we're taking things slowly."
He glanced down to her stomach, and joked "I wouldn't say too slowly."
She rubbed her hand against her belly. "Yeah, 6 months pregnant and waitressing. I'm such a cliché." She laughed "The baby will take his name though, I'm sure we'll get married sooner rather than later. Just never pictured my first baby out of wedlock"
He looked at her directly in the face, his smile brightening more than she had seen this morning, a glint in his eye. "Is that right?"
Looks like this Tuesday just became a lot more interesting.