Bright Eyes

2. Midnight Streets

Jack stepped out of the diner, closing the door behind him, midnight summer air enveloping his form. He had done everything—devoured his burger and fries, swigged a tall glass of water in five gulps, paid, got out of there—all within a span of about ten minutes.

    He didn't want to stay any longer.

    The man in the suit creeped him out, that's for sure. The stranger had made no order, no word, no movement, but sat there by the counter in silence, his gaze locked upon him.

    It didn't seem right—how everyone else didn't seem to notice. But Jack noticed things.

    Bob, the waiter with the potbelly, hadn't offered to take the man's order since he entered the diner.

    Martha, the other employee on night shift duty, came into the diner panting, her attempt to retrieve payment from the mess of a couple unsuccessful. She never gave the man as much as a fleeting glance, paying him no mind the entire time. Although if she did ignore him on purpose, Jack thought, he found no reason to blame her—he looked creepy as hell.

And there was the skinny, college-aged boy who went staggering into the diner, intoxicated, liquor stains and dirt on his shirt. He held on to a particular stool—the one where the man in the suit sat—for support. Yet he too didn't seem to notice, as his arm shot straight out to grasp the countertop, his arm barely an inch away from the man's shoulder, his hand nearly touching the hook of the cane. Then, rising from the boy's guts and out of his mouth, vomit spilled out onto the floor, right below the man's polished black leather shoes. Jack blinked, wanting to get rid of the mental picture. Having to see that while he munched on his burger and fries made him want to leave all the more.

    He had to admit, fear made him observant.

    Just as it did when the diner door swung open.

    Jack had not gone far yet, when his ears caught the sound of footfalls stepping out onto the concrete pavement, a cane tapping against the ground. His sight turned towards the diner door, hoping for the best, fearing the worst.

    The door closed behind the man in the black suit and sunglasses. Jack flitted his eyes towards the sidewalk ahead, and dug his hand into his jeans pocket, only to retrieve nothing. Great, he thought. He had forgotten his phone at home. Left it plugged into a charger, he remembered now. He remembered not getting an Uber to downtown that night; he remembered how he had to wait for almost an hour by the bus stop before a cab appeared. Great, just great. His feet began to take longer strides, then, farther away from the glare of neon lights, into the shadows of these somber minutes after midnight.

    He could feel his heart pound against his chest. But he had to play calm, keep a straight face. Walking faster wouldn't help but make fear evident, he knew that. If this man intended something sinister, Jack wished to give him no satisfaction—until he could hail a cab and head straight home, that was his plan.

    Jack went on walking. With each step, with each turn, the man in the suit followed, the sound of his footsteps and the tapping of his cane stalking his every movement. Jack didn't dare to look back—the rhythm lurking behind him was enough to make him cautious—and kept his vision ahead, searching fervently for any passing cab.

    A few minutes had gone since Jack left the diner, yet the streets remained dead empty, no sight of any cars speeding down the road, lifeless streetlights illuminating the path before him. He could still hear the man's footfalls patterning after his every step. He had no actual certainty of this man's intentions, but if this were to go on any longer, or if the worst were to happen, he was ready to defend himself, even if that meant getting into some trouble. He knew how to fight. He had the skills. He could handle this.