Post The Book

Y/N

The Diner
Friday, 13th September 2024 (5PM)

5pm.

An hour of my shift left.

There's not much movement at the moment, the Diner is unusually empty - apart from the odd loitering teenagers outside, as if I care.

It's quiet, apart from some humming tune from the radio, which I've long drowned out. My coworkers are probably in the back on their phones whilst waiting for some activity.

Meanwhile I stand by the bar on lookout incase any poor soul has nothing better to do have a date at the crappiest old-fashioned Diner tonight. But I doubt it.

There's some kind of fest on, and as much as I wish I could have gone, bunking yet another shift just isn't on my possible to-do list.

Some kind of sappy song plays lowly before I finally turn the radio down, quieting it so that I can at least concentrate - the migraine I have is slowly growing, and the painkillers I usually have are in my bag, in the back.

I could ride it out, or make it easier for myself and grab them - it would take like, probably ten extra seconds.

The front of my skull prickles with an uncomfortable pressure, and I push myself off the counter.

Turning to head into the employee lounge, a sliver of black catches my eye form under the bar counter, something hiding behind various bottles and bits.

I kneel down and find myself quietly moving glass bottles and wrongly put away cups to find that behind them, for some reason, lays a thick black book, dusty and leather-looking.

Curiosity surges in me the longer I stare at it, trying to figure out if I should take a glance.

Carefully, I take it from the shelving successfully without knocking anything over or smashing anything.

Using a sleeve, I wipe as much dust off of the cover as possible - earning a sneeze from me - but now I can see that the front cover seems to be what might have once been a golden triangle, but it's honestly a little hard to tell, with nothing but the faded colours and indented ridges as if there was once a design.

It's cold to the touch.

How long has this been sitting here?

Maybe someone left it?

Someone must've forgotten it. But whoever it is definitely doesn't work here anymore.

In search for a name, I open to the first page. I don't find any pen, or sticker containing a name or at least a stamp from a library. What intrigues me though, is the big yet faded lettering right on the first page:

'Tired of work?'

Reading down further, it's possible to make out a few more words before they disappear as if somehow purged from the page, dissolved with alcohol, or water. I'm under the assumption that's what may have happened.

'Is having the same routine difficult? The same events day in day out? Well'

It cuts off. Well what? I guess I'll never know.

I find myself flipping through the pages, the lettering scattered and patchy, parts faded, looking typed up for the most part. Like a professional book.

I can't help but wonder what it might have been about.. my first thought wanders to a joke book, bad jokes.

Before I can reach the end, I hear a shuffling coming from the employee lounge and feel myself flinching at the noise, impulses raging to shove the book back where I found it, knocking a glass in the process - which I reach to catch, but it's too late.

My heart accelerates in my chest at the sound of the crash. Shit.

Now standing above me is one of my coworkers, a brown haired lady, looking down at the mess.

"Ah. I'm so sorry" I manage to mutter, but she raises a hand to stop me from rambling, then points to the not so hidden book.

"What's that you've got there?" She asks.

"I'm not sure" sheepishly, I carefully bring it back out to present to her.

"I just found it, I was wondering if it belongs to anyone?" I ask.

Taking a momentary glance at it, she shrugs.

"I don't know, I haven't seen it before" she responds.

I feel the spilt alcohol pooling at my feet, the sharp smell sends a burning pain to my hand. That's when my momentary glancing at the book brings to my attention to the fact there's fresh blood trickling from my fingers in a stream down to the back of my hand already.

"Oh sh-"

"I'll take care of this, go clean yourself up"

With an embarrassed exhale I find myself lodging the book under my arm and promptly standing to leave.

"I'm sorry" I mutter again, heading to the employee door and barging it open with my shoulder.

The momentary glances from the two others lounging in the room fill me with cringe all the way from my feet - I force myself to look at the two people and smile, waving off the situation with a bloody hand before turning to the coat hanger situated beside the sink and food counter.

The tap runs cold water as I hurriedly place the book beside the sink, noticing the print of blood I've carelessly smeared at the bottom of the dusty pages - I can't give it back to the owner like this. God dammit.

Right now isn't the time to worry about that though... I wash my bloody hand under the sink, still under the awkward gaze of my colleagues who finally speak up after the abrupt stop of the running tap.

"Uh.. what happened?"

"I'm okay." I mindlessly reply as I focus on sifting through the top cabinet which should contain plasters and bandaids - ah, just what I'm looking for. I pull out a pack.

In seconds my cut up hand is patched up, burning, but patched up.

Without sparing a glance at my colleagues I grab the book, taking my bag off the hook of the hanger - the door opens.

In the doorway is my manager, again.

"Alright we'll close up early, there's not much movement. Go home. I'll lock up."

I furrow my brows but say nothing apart from giving a disgruntled nod - I stuff the book into my bag, liking for nothing more than to go home and clamber into my bed right now.

I wave half-heartedly to my colleagues.

The air is rather cold at this time, and the sun is just about to fuck off, so that the darkness of the evening can set in.

Walking along, I notice how lonely it is outside. Everyone's at the festival in- I slow my pace, turning to look back at where I've travelled from.

I could still go, I could sneak in.

I ponder a moment. Then shake my head.

Nah. I'm too tired.

A sigh.

I continue back down the long path, taking out my earphones and placing them in my ears, but upon pulling out my phone, realizing they refuse to connect, I learn they've died. Ofcourse. Because that's what I needed, right?

Is the universe fucking with me?

I can't help the groan I produce before I shove them back into my pocket, now a little more pissed than a few seconds ago as I'm forced to listen to the ambience of rustling trees, how exciting.

After a few minutes, I can't help but think I'm being followed. I turn to look back, nobody is there, ofcourse. Who would be?

Everyone's at the fest.

But me.

Well, if I'm not there, who else isn't?

I continue on my way, it's my paranoia. It has to be.