Earl's Diner

Coffee, black.

Hair, black.

Shirt, black.

Nails, black.

Soul, black.

Cake, chocolate.

No you didn’t think I was ordering some kinda white meringue bullshit did you? Not today. I’m sitting at Little Earl’s diner about to die and all I can think about is how sticky this icing is. I mean, c’mon. What else you want me to think about? There’s none of this life before your eyes bullshit when you know you bout to croak. Just awareness. Your eyes finally see. Everything in technicolour, I’m telling you. You can hear someone stirring their coffee from miles away. You’re suddenly the animal you are. Alert, aware, alive.

The diner’s nice man. Cute, sort of run down, but charming. Glossy pink seats, the usual metallic tables, waitresses all in white and some kind of light blue curtain everywhere. With ruffles. Gorgeous, in a grotesque, over the top kinda way. A few mid afternoon diners mill around the bar. One is drinking coffee and smacking his lips eating curly fries, ketchup building in the corner of his mouth. He’s blissfully unaware. Lucky bastard.

I sit, knuckles on the table, left hand grips the fork and my eyes stare dead ahead. No, I’m not choking. No, it’s not a heart attack. And no, it’s not the cake. Although I can see how some of ya’ll thought it was gonna be.

Nope.

It’s the bullet that’s about to break through the window, speed across the whole diner and land right in my chest.

I knew this day was coming. I knew. But I had no choice. Once you get mixed up with Mickey, that’s it. They come at you until there’s nothing left. It was always gonna end this way. I wore what I did so there’d be less work for Ma when they found me. No need to ruffle through my clothes to pick out what I’ll wear into the dirt. It’s already on me. I’m sorry Ma. I really am.

The cake itself is nothing special. Sure, everyone thinks their chocolate cake is the best, but it’s not. Truth be told, I forgot why I ordered it. It seemed less sad than ordering a proper meal. I’d rather die with my face down in some cake than floating in soup, or fries, or a burger, lettuce all splayed across my face, mayonnaise looking funky on my forehead. No thanks, no siree bob, let's go chocolate.

It was more than one bullet, obviously. When diners get hit, they get hit. I should've gone to a less popular joint but who’s thinking when you're about to eat shit right? Give me a break, at least I ordered the cake.

There’s a little ray of light streaming in through a crack in the curtain, hitting my table, making a tiny slither of air sway. You know when you catch the light just right? You can see all that stuff that floats in the air just sort of dancing? I sit and watch and enjoy this final piece. A trumpet wails from the radio and the squiggly air things dance. I feel light. Finally. After all these years, I feel light.

It’s not really important what I did, or who I am or who Mickey is. What’s important is that you’re here. With me. In my last moment. Just as I had my first bite of chocolate cake. When the bullet went in. I didn't even feel it. It just felt hot. And then it felt cold. And colder and colder, until there was nothing at all.

No, not black. Grey.

Grey clouds.

Grey ocean.

Grey dirt.

No cake.