GHOST - SHORT STORIES

A LATE NIGHT VISITOR

Soft music filters through the cafe; the occasional passerby walking across the double bay windows that peer out onto the quiet street.

A nearby streetlight is the only thing illuminating the outside. And every so often, the headlights of a passing car minimise the darkness.

The moon is somewhere hidden behind the clouds that threaten to shower the earth with a heavy downpour.

You sweep the floor almost absentmindedly. Thoughts somewhere else; your body feeling the ache of a long week of serving coffee and making conversation with customers.

The Saturday night closing hour has always been your favourite. A prelude to your lazy, workless Sunday. The only day of your week reserved for doing absolutely nothing.

Running this cafe has been a dream made into a reality. Of course, it has its harder days. It's busier weeks. And stress to boot. But overall, you can't ask for anything more.

Friendly regulars and a steady profit. Not to mention, your commute is nothing more than a set of stairs. Your apartment situated atop of the business.

It's a good life.

The bell upon the door to the cafe rings out, drawing your attention upwards. Your back to the entrance. A gentle frustration settling in the pit of your stomach at the patron who has decided to stop by only five minutes before the sign upon the door will flip to CLOSED.

But, you press on a smile as you sweep the small pile of dust to the side to deal with later. Clearing your throat as you begin to turn.

"No coffee left, I'm afraid. We're closing in five."

Your eyes settling upon a familiar, well-built figure. His features hidden away behind a skull print balaclava. Everything covered but his eyes. A soft smile tugging upon your lips at the sight of the rarely spotted man.

"Simon. Long time no see."

A soft chuckle escapes him as he approaches the counter that you've situated yourself behind.

"Hey, you."

Two years ago he turned up in the cafe a few minutes past 10PM. Not saying much else than the order of his coffee. Settling at a table and pulling out a notepad that captured his attention until the 2AM closing time rolled around.

It wasn't unusual for people to stay until late. Hell, it's the purpose of your cafe. Open until the early hours of the morning; always attracting a specific type of crowd. Young adults studying somewhere other than their campus. Business people who couldn't stay in the office, but weren't ready to trek home.

And every so often, Simon. A military man who seemed to visit whenever he was back home. Which wasn't very frequently. But you consider him a regular all the same.

You've seen him, at most, eight times in the past two years. The first two nights ended in quiet conversation. The only two bodies left in the quiet cafe.

He'd caught you by surprise the second time when he'd offered to wash up the coffee cup he'd used when he realised you'd cleaned the place around him. Not wanting to interrupt whatever had him buried in his notepad.

And the third time he spent a few hours in the cafe, he'd helped you close up shop. Mopping the floor, which you'd found rather endearing. A big, strong, army guy mopping a cafe floor.

Following that, he ended up upstairs with you. And later, tangled with you beneath the sheets.

Every appearance after that had ended rather similarly.

The last one, six months ago, found him in your kitchen the next morning cooking eggs and bacon.

Your body settled at the breakfast bar in his shirt, watching the way his muscles flexed with each movement. Torso bare. A few silver scars across his flesh; gained on the battlefield you could only assume.