Greenline

1

Monday, January 18th; 2:14 pm

Growing up, I never really liked afternoons. Not unless they were cloudy and grey. The falling sun always reminded me that another minorly-productive day had disappeared. I was freshly seventeen and in my junior year of high school, and yet I always felt like I was running out of time. I didn't particularly have a reason to feel this way. No job, no extracurricular activities; I led a fairly unencumbered life. But it was an anxiety that plagued me at least twice a week.

No, I much preferred afternoons where the sun was hidden behind water-swollen clouds that barely allowed me to notice another day's end. Not this day, though. On this day, the thunder rumbling above the small town of Greenline, Colorado didn't bring me nearly as much satisfaction as usual.

Drops were beginning to hit the pavement and stamp dots across the beige sidewalk. It tapped down upon my chipped windshield, warning of an impending downpour. I tried to let the sound drown out my thoughts as I sat in the driver's seat of my rusting Civic, staring at my hands on the wheel. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, I finally worked up the motivation needed to take my key out of the ignition and unbuckle my seatbelt. The rest came from habit. The breeze hit me as soon as I opened the door.

I locked the car and stepped into the drizzle before slamming my door shut. Everything felt a bit muffled that day, like the morning blur from waking had never left my eyes. It was a brief trip under the cold rain before I reached the diner I had parked in front of. It wasn't like the diners you would see in movies, the ones that were cool and retro and still held a fairly 50s feel even decades after their creation. No, the diner of this small town was sandwiched between a dentist's office and a nail salon on the only commercial square around for miles. The inside was styled with blocky Swedish furniture and the only true resemblance it had to the diner archetype was the metal counter, the three built in booths in the back corner, and an old, dusty jukebox that I couldn't ever recall playing music.

When I entered, the hostess greeted me like an old friend. I wasn't necessarily a regular to the establishment, but our town was on the smaller side and about an eighth of my high school's alumni had worked in this restaurant at some point in their careers. I offered the usual polite smile and nod I'd been raised to give before going up to the counter.

Two of the four bar stools were already occupied, both patrons sat as far apart as possible. It left me the awkward choice of disrupting one of their spaces. On the one end sat the old man who ran the bookstore with his daughter along the very same street, circling ads in the newspaper he was shuffling through. The other end was occupied by someone I didn't recognize, but he looked young. Although it might have been the dark beanie he wore that gave him a youthful appearance.

Since he seemed closer to my age, I decided to take up the stool next to him, asking the waiter behind the counter for a coffee. The look I received in return made it occur to me that the lanky man knew. Hell, everyone in town probably knew. My best friend died two weeks ago in a car accident. It was brutal. He had not gone quickly. I made the mistake of looking at the news footage once, just to understand. It was hard to stop imagining his last moments against the sharp, hot metal after that. I had spent the entire time since cooped up in my room while my parents failed to play therapist.

The waiter stuck me with pitiful looks the entire time he brewed the fresh pot. He tried to turn them away, but the long blue posts swinging out of the stretched holes in his ears revealed his movement. When he brought my order, I thanked him as if I hadn't noticed. Suddenly, the brown abyss that sloshed around inside of the white ceramic mug seemed very interesting to me. He brought over a matching pitcher of cream and set it on the counter before returning to his far-off peeks.

There was a television anchored onto the wall behind the counter that was angled for both the employees and patrons to view. It was a blocky thing, barely held in place by a steel cage. Its volume was always muted unless the program was particularly interesting, and usually it was playing the evening news or a game of football. That day, it was news – local, of course – and they were playing some shaky footage of a funeral. The timestamp marked it as just an hour before.

I clenched my jaw without noticing much and took a sip of my steaming beverage. I couldn't find the strength to tear my eyes away from the screen and I found myself watching Carter Wilmore's casket as it was lowered into the ground for the second time that afternoon.

What finally pulled my gaze away was not my own resolve, but the man beside me. "How can you drink that?" His voice was filled with disgust and he nearly glared at the mug in my hands. As he turned to face me, I noticed life shining in his amber eyes. Or maybe it was the ugly fluorescent lighting. "That's all black, right?" He looked at the ignored cream and came back to me. "Not even a packet of sugar?"

I raised an eyebrow, nodding as I took in his appearance. He was wearing dark, loose clothing and his eyes were not filled with an ounce of pity as he stared upon me.

"Seriously?" He questioned. "I bet you think that's badass," a sudden taunt from the stranger made me unable to swallow my anxiety. It was not a day I needed confrontation. I didn't think I would have been able to stomach it. Thankfully, his expression remained light hearted, which led me to believe he was joking.

By then, I dared to be amused, but I tried hard to keep any of that from showing on my face. I didn't think it would be right to live and breathe and feel okay after what I had witnessed today, and who I had said goodbye to. "It's just coffee," I mumbled, weighed down heavily by grief.

He shook his head indignantly, and he insisted I had to be lying. "If I am ever in a situation where I have to drink coffee black, or die? I think I'd just say goodbye to the world." There was a steady smile on his face. The topic of Death didn't bother me as much as I expected it would. In fact, I think I may have even laughed at his comment, wondering how one could possibly get into the situation he proposed.

"No, thank you," he continued, now facing me on the barstool and abandoning a scraped-clean plate. As he spoke, I found myself angled towards him as well. "I'm a half-a-cup-of-flavoring kinda guy. There's no cream and sugar, I'm not touching it."

The smirk had fallen onto my face before I had even noticed and I set my cup down on the counter. I could not quite grasp why this man was talking to me. "So because I drink black coffee, I think I'm a badass?" I reiterated, testing his stance on the matter.

He shook his head again, "You can't actually like it. So you're faking."

It was an accusation I was not prepared for, taken off guard and a rather incredulous look fanning over my face, though I remember smiling then when I put my cup onto the counter. "But I do like it."

He seemed genuinely surprised. I felt a bit like I had walked into the old folks home and been accosted by a confused geriatric. "Wow, that's kind of badass." My brow crinkled, and again I questioned him; I was a badass for drinking coffee? "Today you are," he stated, holding out his hand.

I narrowed my eyes, quite hesitant for a moment, before taking him up on the handshake. "I'm Isaac." He told me.

"Ethan," I introduced myself. "Are you new to town?" At his puzzled expression, I explained that I hadn't seen him around anywhere before. 

He laughed, choosing that moment to shuffle through his pockets and find a twenty to throw onto the counter. "Not many people have."

I watched curiously as he pushed himself off of the stool and left without another word, surprised by his tall stature. When the bell above the door rang as he walked out, I nearly wanted to ask him to stay.