The Nighthawk.

He sat alone in the Skylight Diner, a place that never truly slept but drifted through a series of weary blinks. It was tucked beneath a half-broken sign that buzzed and spat sparks of neon blue into the damp alleyway. Outside, the rain trickled down the window, turning the street into a smear of red and gold reflections. Inside, a radio far in the kitchen murmured 40s tunes, songs long forgotten by the world, through poor reception, as if whispering a sorrow-laden poem to no one in particular.

He had been coming here most nights since he’d lost his last warehouse job and since he’d squandered the meagre redundancy pay on cheap whisky and cheaper women. He wore a jacket too thin for this time of year, shoulders hunched as though he were perpetually bracing against a blow. His cap was outdated and tattered, covering his thinning hair. His eyes, bloodshot and heavy-lidded, scanned the diner’s interior as though it might hold answers to questions he was too frightened to phrase.

The place smelled faintly of burnt coffee grounds and old fryer grease. The windows had the yellow tint of nicotine etched into them from days when the diner buzzed with aspirational youth. Those days were gone, but the stain was stubborn as regret. The seat cushions were torn; their foam innards spat into the world like silent cries. The white counters were stained with coffee rings and still bore ashtrays. Regulars here still smoked a long-forgotten hovel in a city moving on without them. On the far wall, a clock always seemed a few minutes slow, its long hand creeping forward at a pace that mocked him: time passing, chances passing, and him sitting still, refusing to declare himself.

Across the counter, the waitress moved with a calm grace he could never understand. She was younger by a good stretch, maybe in her mid-twenties, and her slender frame was lithe and graceful like a dancer’s. She had quick, intelligent eyes like a young Brigitte Bardot and a posture that hinted at life beyond this greasy spoon: education waiting, love letters hidden in a drawer, train tickets to a city of brighter lights. She was out of his league, and he knew it. She seemed to belong to a world where people stepped boldly into the unknown, made choices, and took consequences as they came. Yet here she was, fetching coffee for his likes. He watched her warily, hunting for some clue that she might be tethered down as he was. He found none.

He lowered his gaze, embarrassed by his longing. Thinking of engaging her in conversation beyond the every day was like stepping onto a crowded stage. He could picture it if he tried. Perhaps she’d smile politely, though not kindly, more pitying than anything else. Perhaps she’d brush him off, tired of drunks and their clumsy flattery. Either way, heartbreak seemed woven into every possible syllable.

He stirred his coffee: black, always black. Asking for milk felt like a risk: what if it curdled, what if it tasted off, what if he had to send it back, making a scene? The bitterness was at least familiar. It tasted like his life’s stagnant comfort. Better the devil, you know. The waitress approached with a pot of coffee in hand. He saw her reflection in the dented chrome coffee machine behind her. Her eyes seemed distant, already imagining a world beyond these linoleum floors. She topped up his cup, the liquid barely steaming now.

“Where ya going, baby?” she asked, her tone casual, as though it mattered little. But her glance settled on the bus ticket lying on the counter beside his cup, his ticket out of this run-down town. His escape plan. Or at least the promise of one.

“Wherever the wind takes me,” he said, half-joking, half-daring himself to believe it. It sounded braver than it felt. His voice wavered slightly.

“Ya need anything else, hon?” she replied, that faint disinterest in her eyes. She’d seen dozens like him: drifters making empty promises, gamblers of fate who never placed a bet. Oblivious, or indifferent, to his attempt at humour, she waited, poised to move along if he dithered.

He coughed slightly, buying himself time. The choice hovered before him: to stand up now, leave the coffee half-finished, step outside into the rain and head for the depot. The last bus south left just before dawn. There was still time. He pictured the journey: the rattling seats, the strangers’ eyes. He pictured himself alighting in a new place with no guarantees. He could smell the fear already souring his tongue.

Heartbreak lurked behind every corner of the unknown. Could he risk it? Standing might rip open a future he couldn’t control. Maybe he’d find work, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d fall in love or stumble into despair even deeper than this. The possibilities pulsed with danger. And the waitress, would leaving now mean never seeing her again? Did that matter? He didn’t even know her name, was too afraid to ask, and was too small in his own eyes to matter in hers.

His muscles tensed as if to rise. But he stayed put. He couldn’t cross that threshold. The rain outside and the sighing city all conspired to remind him that leaving meant choosing. And choosing meant living. He swallowed hard, letting the silence stand in for his answer.

“Just the coffee,” he said at last, voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, something like a disappointment, or maybe nothing, flickering over her face. Without another word, she drifted to the next customer, a ghost passing through his half-lit purgatory.

Time trudged forward. He felt it press against his temples. The bus ticket lay there, accusing him. His palms were sweating at the thought of crumpling it and leaving it behind. Even that was a choice, though. It's easier just to let it be untouched. The clock on the wall ticked away its smug, lagging seconds. His reflection in the window looked drawn and grey, like a character in someone else’s story who’d forgotten his lines.

Outside, the city’s heart kept beating. He refused to step into its rhythm. Inside, he remained perched on his stool, unblinking as possibilities withered. The waitress vanished into the kitchen, returned, poured more coffee, and moved on, her life advancing subtly while he shrank further into himself. He did not attempt to catch her eye again, no attempt to seize any moment.

The door didn’t swing open for him, and he didn’t force it. He wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t arrive. He wouldn’t risk heartbreak, nor would he embrace hope. By refusing to choose, he denied himself the raw hurt of living. But in doing so, he also denied his own existence, fading into that stale air with the static of the radio and the faint smell of burnt coffee as his only witnesses.

He sat there as if waiting for dawn to break without him, just a feature of the diner’s hollow landscape, a man with a bus ticket he’d never use, sinking further into irrelevance, one silent second at a time. A dull sensation overcame him. Go or stay? Either way, he would have to choose. At that moment, he saw the glint of a silver coin. He wouldn’t make the choice - fate would. He swooped down like a hawk, gleeful at his new state of passivity. Heads he gets on the bus, tails he stays in the doldrums of this familiar town. He tossed the coin, and it landed on its edge between his coffee cup and the wall. Even fate would condemn him, forever stuck in an unresolved moment.

Andrew.