The dead hour

Three is a bad time for business. My only customer read without moving a muscle except to turn over a page or occasionally look out the window. Otherwise, all other action only unravelled throughout the pages of her book.

The only money we were going to make before four o'clock was from her coffee, but even so, seeing her there, with her glass left to one side, bothered me. Was she waiting for someone? No one was coming. Who would? I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to keep an appointment with someone like her. Not because of her looks: ugliness wasn’t one of her traits. It was more due to the lack of emotion in her face. Or maybe the real thing was that she just didn’t have any traits. She gave me the creeps: like being too close to an angel of death.

The door opened and my colleague came in to start her shift. She said hi, went to the toilets to change, and returned shortly. I seized the opportunity. “Go ask her if she wants anything else”

My colleague blinked and glanced round the café. I was wiping the bar, shifting grime form one end to another. Realizing she wasn’t reacting, I added, “The girl. By the window. With the book.”

“What girl?”

I turned to point her out. There was no girl, no book, no glass. Just the screech of brakes, a thud, and screams in the street.