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Stale Coffee and Sarcasm

  The fluorescent lights of The Blue Moon Diner hummed a discordant tune, a familiar lullaby to Casey as she wiped down the already gleaming chrome counter. It was 1:17 AM on a Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday morning - the days blurred together under the perpetual twilight of the overnight shift. Twenty-seven years old, and her most consistent relationship was with lukewarm coffee and the ghosts of conversations past that seemed to cling to the vinyl booths.

  Casey ran a hand through her hair, a ridiculously long cascade of fiery red that she usually wrestled into a messy bun or braid, but tonight had left loose. It tumbled over her shoulder, a stark contrast to the pale blue uniform. She caught her reflection in the mirrored pie display: the riot of red hair, the mismatched eyes - one the colour of a summer sky, the other a startling, deep ruby - staring back. People always commented on the eyes. Some found them fascinating, others unsettling. Casey just found them... hers. Another weird thing in a life that felt stubbornly, grindingly normal.

  "Hey, Red! Need a warm-up if you don't mind."

  The voice belonged to Sal, one of the regulars. He was a retired trucker built like a weathered oak barrel, occupying his usual corner booth with the dogged determination of a homesteader. His mug was perpetually half-empty.

  Casey grabbed the pot, the coffee inside sloshing like dark, bitter thoughts. "Only if you promise not to tell me about your ingrown toenail again, Sal. My delicate constitution can only handle so much excitement." She poured, the aroma thick and slightly burnt.

  Sal chuckled, a gravelly sound. "Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart. Though it is lookin' mighty angry today."

  "Thrilling," Casey deadpanned, moving away before he could elaborate. Sarcasm wasn't just a defense mechanism; it was her primary language, honed to a razor's edge by years of dealing with drunks, insomniacs, and people who thought 3 AM was the perfect time for existential crises over pancakes.

  The Blue Moon wasn't the worst place. It paid the bills, mostly. The owner, Gus, was a gruff but fair man who mostly left her alone. The clientele was... varied. Tonight was slow. Besides Sal, there was a young couple in a back booth whispering intensely, probably dissecting a terrible date, and a woman hunched over a laptop, nursing a single cup of tea like it held the secrets of the universe.

  Casey retreated to the pass-through window, leaning against the stainless steel. Barry, the cook - a man of few words and many tattoos - was meticulously arranging bacon on the grill, the sizzle a comforting counterpoint to the hum.

  "Anything exciting happening back there, Barry? Solving world hunger via hash browns?" Casey asked. Barry grunted, which could mean anything from "Yes, almost cracked it" to "Leave me alone." Casey interpreted it as the latter and let the silence stretch.

  She hated the quiet moments the most. They gave her too much time to think. Time to wonder how she'd ended up here, serving lukewarm coffee under flickering lights while the rest of the world slept. She'd had dreams once, vague and ill-defined notions of doing... something else. Something more. Art school maybe? Travelling? But life, bills, and a healthy dose of inertia had conspired to keep her rooted. She was single, not by fervent choice but by a combination of odd hours, a prickly exterior, and a general lack of encountering anyone who didn't immediately comment on her eyes or ask if the carpet matched the drapes. Charming.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  A sudden pop and flicker overhead made her jump. The fluorescent tube above Sal's booth sputtered, buzzed violently, and then returned to its sickly glow.

  "Damn lights," Sal grumbled. "Gus oughta fix those."

  "Yeah, well, Gus also thinks disco is due for a comeback," Casey retorted, grabbing her order pad. "Anything else for you while I'm vertical?"

  "Nah, I'm good, Red. Just enjoyin' the ambiance."

  Casey snorted. The ambiance was fifty shades of stale grease and regret.

  She checked on the laptop woman, who waved her away without looking up, her fingers flying across the keys. The couple in the back booth had fallen silent, staring at each other with the kind of bleak intensity that usually preceded either a tearful breakup or bad diner sex in a cramped car. Casey hoped for their sakes it wasn't the latter.

  She busied herself restocking napkin dispensers, the repetitive task soothing. Sometimes, weird little things happened. Like the lights flickering when she was particularly annoyed. Or the time that obnoxious guy wouldn't stop snapping his fingers at her, and suddenly the salt shaker next to him just... tipped over. All by itself. Covered his cheap suit jacket. He'd blamed the wobbly table, stormed out without paying. Casey had just shrugged it off. Old building, weird drafts, faulty wiring. Exhaustion played tricks on the mind. You saw things, imagined things, when you lived your life backwards under artificial light.

  Once, a stray cat - a sleek black thing with eyes like emeralds - had followed her home from work. It had waited patiently on her doorstep every morning for a week. She'd started putting out food, grumbling about fleas and vet bills she couldn't afford. Then, one morning, it was gone. But for that week, coming home hadn't felt quite so lonely. Sometimes she thought she saw a flicker of black fur out of the corner of her eye near the diner's dumpsters, but it was always just a shadow.

  3:45 AM. The graveyard shift limbo. Too late for the post-bar crowd, too early for the pre-dawn workers. Casey leaned on the counter again, tracing patterns in a small puddle of spilled soda with her finger. Her mismatched eyes felt heavy. Sleep, when she finally got it around 7 AM, was often dreamless and unsatisfying. She woke up feeling like she'd run a marathon in treacle.

  The bell above the door jingled, startlingly loud in the quiet. A man stood there, shaking water from his dark coat, though it hadn't been raining. He was tall and dressed a little too well for The Blue Moon at this hour - tailored coat, leather shoes that gleamed even in the dim light. He scanned the diner, his gaze pausing for a fraction of a second longer than necessary when it landed on Casey.

  Here we go, she thought. Another one for the "comment on the eyes" bingo card. She plastered on her professional, slightly weary smile.

  "Just one?" she asked, grabbing a menu.

  He nodded, sliding into a booth near the front window. He didn't look like a trucker, or a student, or a drunk. He looked... out of place. Like a raven finding itself inexplicably perched amongst pigeons.

  "Coffee?" Casey asked, hovering beside the booth.

  "Please. Black," he replied. His voice was smooth, cultured. He finally looked up, meeting her eyes directly. Casey braced herself.

  But he didn't comment. He didn't stare with morbid curiosity or ask some pseudo-poetic question about sunsets and oceans. He just gave a polite, almost imperceptible nod, his own eyes - a warm, ordinary brown - holding hers for a moment before flicking down to the menu she placed before him. Well, that was... unexpected.

  Casey poured his coffee. As she turned away, she could have sworn she heard him murmur something incredibly soft, something that sounded like, "Almost time."

  She shook her head, dismissing it. Must have been the radio, or Sal talking to himself again. Just another night at The Blue Moon Diner, filled with stale coffee, flickering lights, and the quiet hum of a life waiting, unknowingly, for the moon to change. She wiped down the counter again, the ruby and sapphire of her eyes reflecting briefly in the chrome, unaware of the subtle magic clinging to her like the smell of bacon, just waiting for the right spark.

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