In the middle of a silent town sits a diner. A red brick building with tall windows on the front and side walls. Faded decals decorate the windows, advertising the sale of a long-gone week. In big block letters, painted above the entrance, is the name of the diner: Phillies. Phillies is the only building in town with light that can be seen. It occupies the corner of what once was a street full of vibrant people and colors. Now it’s a dull, vacant shell of what it used to be. The only people for miles are inside.

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An employee in his 40’s is behind the counter. He wears his uniform, an outfit that hasn’t been white in a long time. The folded hat he wears falls off his head, it reveals his receding hairline and his greasy blond hair that sticks matted to his head. He doesn’t pick it up. He bites the inside of his left cheek, making his already sunken face thinner. His bug eyes dart back and forth, watching his own hands as they move just as fast. He repeatedly stacks and rearranges the same cups, never letting them stay in one place for too long. His skeletal fingers grip the cups too tightly.

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A man sits at the counter. He’s dressed as if he’d just come from an important business meeting. He’d entirely look the part if he weren’t missing the suit jacket and if you ignore the tear that runs through his shirt. He does nothing but watches the employees movements. It’s mesmerizing to him. The soft clink of the glasses being sat down is the only noise in the place, besides the buzzing of the overhead light. It’s the only noise they welcome. 

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Next to him, sits a woman. She leans her elbows on the bar, her red hair cascading over her shoulders and her matching red dress, as she smokes a nearly finished cigarette. She was gorgeous save for the dirt all along her exposed skin. It’s everywhere but did not dare touch her dress. She tilts her body back, her head to the ceiling, as she takes one long final drag. She holds the smoke in her lungs, savoring the rich taste before she needs air. She blows it out as slow as she can manage. The pungent smell is let into the air for the last time. The white wisps dance their way around the room before they disperse, blending in with the rest of the air, the same way the woman wishes she could do. She smashes the butt on the counter, then lets her head fall into her left hand. Her gaze settles on the last person in the diner as she bites her red lips an even darker shade.

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A disheveled man sits away from everyone else. His hands tremble as they clutch a photograph of a smiling family. The others ignore the steady stream of tears running down his stoic face. They ignore the blood too.

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“Can I get you anything, sir?” the employee asks the crying man. Now he’s left the cups to wipe up the cigarette ash from the counter. His interruption of the silence is too harsh for the environment. The crying man slowly looks up at the employee. The employee smiles, too full and too bright, but it doesn’t  reach his dead eyes. Instead of answering, the crying man stands up and trudges out of the diner, leaving his picture. The employee's smile doesn’t falter as he moves back to the cups. 

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“He’s impatient.”

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“Pardon me, miss?” the employee says. The woman sits up straight now and lets out a heavy sigh. The lights begin to flicker, and everything rattles slightly.

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“That man was impatient.” she waves a hand dismissively at the door. “Why rush the inevitable?” 

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“Why do anything?” says the businessman. He sets his beady stare on the woman now. His hat shakes off his head onto his lap.  The rattling grows, knocking salt and pepper of the counters. 

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“If everyone thought like that, sir, the world would be nothing,” says the employee, voice rising to be heard above the growing noise. A deep, resounding noise joins the movements of everything. 

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“Well hasn’t it come to that anyway?” says the woman.