The coffee was burnt and Teddy was pissed. Four mornings in a row now, his favorite part of the day – that first sip, before the morning rush, as tightly wrapped silverware clinked its way onto booth-wrapped tables and the scent of fresh cut onions danced through the double hinged door – was instead met with ashen bitterness.
The folder beneath his left hand was the same as all the others, but today’s felt different.
“Can always count on you, sugar.”
He knew he’d have to wait for his breakfast, as he always did, and that it would be the first order out of the kitchen, as it always was. Eleven years, six days a week, two eggs scrambled with oregano, hash and onions, rye toast. They stopped giving him a menu after a month.
With his ritual again disrupted by the terrible coffee, Teddy felt distracted, a largely unfamiliar sensation. Instead of pouring over the contents of the folder, he gazed listlessly out the window, and only vaguely registered Betsy sliding onto the purple vinyl seat across from him.
“We have to talk.”
Perfect nails pressed into the placemat. In her usual horn rims and soft lavender uniform, everything seemed in order. As the first few third-shifters wandered in, a tiny brass bell above the door announcing their arrival, Teddy realized that she was distraight. Her face twisted as she chewed on her bottom lip.
“I know what you do, and I can’t let you do this one.”