Post by Samantha on May 13, 2013 5:05:34 GMT
{name:Sinclair Henry#|#picture:6}2:41 AM.
It was quiet, dark; the faint sizzle of grease on the griddle was barely audible to Sinclair Henry at the front counter, where he was keeping watch over the diner while Dave, the on-shift waiter, was out back on a smoke break. Sinclair, his chin resting in his palms, let his elbows slide forward on the countertop so that he was bent over it at a ninety-degree angle. His eyelids were heavy; he blinked once, slide his gaze over to the tables on the opposite side of the floor. Sitting in the very last booth was the diner's sole customer, a middle-aged man who was steadily working his way through a thick slab of chicken-fried steak, periodically breaking for a large gulp of his black—no sugar, no cream—coffee.
2:43 AM.
Sinclair wondered about the man: about his story, what had brought him into the diner at such an early hour of the morning. Sometimes, on nights that were particularly slow, Sinclair would make up elaborate stories for all of the customers in order to amuse himself. The swing shift was often slow—picking up not until around six AM when the nightclubs began to close and the truckers started to pull in off the highways—but Sinclair didn't mind it too badly. It was a job—not a long-term job, certainly not a career—but he had rent that needed to be paid, and the idea of working through the day, wasting away the light, greatly depressed him.
He glanced at the clock on the wall once again. 2:46 AM. The man in the very last booth was still sawing away at the meat on his plate. Sinclair wished that he had a cup of coffee—no cream, three heaping spoonfuls of sugar—like the one that the customer did. As much as he preferred working nights over days, even he couldn't deny that these eight hours weren't the most stimulating of his life.
It was quiet, dark; the faint sizzle of grease on the griddle was barely audible to Sinclair Henry at the front counter, where he was keeping watch over the diner while Dave, the on-shift waiter, was out back on a smoke break. Sinclair, his chin resting in his palms, let his elbows slide forward on the countertop so that he was bent over it at a ninety-degree angle. His eyelids were heavy; he blinked once, slide his gaze over to the tables on the opposite side of the floor. Sitting in the very last booth was the diner's sole customer, a middle-aged man who was steadily working his way through a thick slab of chicken-fried steak, periodically breaking for a large gulp of his black—no sugar, no cream—coffee.
2:43 AM.
Sinclair wondered about the man: about his story, what had brought him into the diner at such an early hour of the morning. Sometimes, on nights that were particularly slow, Sinclair would make up elaborate stories for all of the customers in order to amuse himself. The swing shift was often slow—picking up not until around six AM when the nightclubs began to close and the truckers started to pull in off the highways—but Sinclair didn't mind it too badly. It was a job—not a long-term job, certainly not a career—but he had rent that needed to be paid, and the idea of working through the day, wasting away the light, greatly depressed him.
He glanced at the clock on the wall once again. 2:46 AM. The man in the very last booth was still sawing away at the meat on his plate. Sinclair wished that he had a cup of coffee—no cream, three heaping spoonfuls of sugar—like the one that the customer did. As much as he preferred working nights over days, even he couldn't deny that these eight hours weren't the most stimulating of his life.
