Extra

The clock on the gray diner wall was stuck on one minute to midnight, he noticed for the second time while lighting his third cigarette.

Tossing the match on the service counter, he watched as it missed the metal ashtray.

The ashtray was full.

A ceiling fan, with cracked wooden blades, clacked every time it had finished a slow rotation.

He shifted his weight and the wooden bar stool creaked underneath him as he moved his pointed shoes to a lower horizontal beam between the two front legs. The dark shade of his shoes perfectly matched the wool of his three-piece suit and the felt of his snap-brim fedora. His fedora lay next to the full ashtray, a half-empty packet of cigarettes, a matchbook, and seven cents in change, on the counter.

Picking up the coins, he pushed them into his left inside breast pocket, took a sip of his coffee, placed the white cup back down on the saucer, and looked around.

No one else sat at the counter but behind it stood a lanky boy with a white long sleeved shirt. His thin black tie peeked out from under his apron as he leisurely wiped a short glass with a white cloth.

He grinned at the boy, turned around on the bar stool, and leaned his left elbow back onto the counter. The wooden chairs around the three matching tables near the large window were empty as well.

Inhaling another breath of smoke, he watched the rain sliding down the glass pane with the words reniD nwoT gnilddoT painted on it.

Thunder roared outside just when a mellow song started playing on the jukebox.

He tapped the inside of his right thumb against the back of the cigarette and the long stem of ash dropped to the dark patterned tile floor. Lifting the stub to his mouth, he closed his lips over the thin white paper and sucked, releasing smoke rings into the stale air as he exhaled. The cinders neared the stains on the insides of his right index- and middle fingers, and he looked over his shoulder at the ashtray on the counter.

The ashtray was full.

Lightning struck outside and lit every inch of the shadowy diner for a split second, and he looked back to see a figure outside, rushing past the window toward the front door.

The bell tingled as the door swung open.

A thin man in a soaked gray trench coat and bowler hat entered. He glanced around the diner, removed his coat and hung it on the coatrack near the door. He paused for a second before glancing up at the clock on the diner wall, still stuck on one minute to midnight. Taking out his pocket watch, the thin man set it to the same time and returned the watch to his jacket pocket. He straightened the collar of his double-breasted pinstripe suit and walked over to the counter, removing his hat. He had a long bony face, a pencil mustache, and short dark hair with a misplaced gray patch above his right ear.

"Mule, please, pally," the thin man ordered in a wheezing voice, and the lanky boy disappeared into an adjacent room.

Placing his hat next to the full ashtray, the man unbuttoned his jacket and sat down at the counter. His small dark round eyes looked too close together under his thick straight eyebrows, slanting sharply down near his narrow nose. He reached for the packet of cigarettes and matchbook on the counter, and lit a cigarette. "Thanks, Joe," he mumbled, and puffed a few times while swiftly shaking the match in the air to extinguish it, before tossing it on top of the pile of stubs in the full ashtray.

Joe dropped his cigarette to the floor when it burned his fingers, and watched as the lanky boy entered again with a bottle of whiskey in hand. The boy placed a short glass in front of the man, poured the liquor into it, and emptied the ashtray.