Prelude to a song

He had been watching them for a while, but they did not notice him. Nobody ever noticed him. The diner was an ordinary place after all, frequented by tired folk who hunched over their coffee after long work days. The lights threw a crisp, white glow around the long space where tables were arranged neatly, only a few chairs left askew by their former occupants breaking the organised symmetry.

He stood there, observing silently. A fat man in a green shirt with sweat-stained armpits gazed with glazed eyes at the small television mounted on a wall in the corner, watching the game in progress. A few young boys in ostentatious jackets conversed in quiet tones with shifty gazes. He wondered if they were up to any good, and hoped they would not need him too soon.

His gaze went back to them, the boy and the girl. They were in their mid-twenties, in slightly worn clothes that indicated modest backgrounds, like everyone else in the diner. This was clearly not an establishment that attracted the wealthy. The walls needed a fresh coat of paint, and the countertop that ran along the length of the dining area had a multitude of cracks and a desperate need for polish. He had seen the interiors of so many buildings over the years that he had subconsciously begun to redecorate them in his mind. This place, in particular, could use warmer lighting. A grim smile spread across his face at the irony. He leaned on his only companion and gripped it tighter.

The girl smiled wistfully at her partner, moving her hand across the table to clasp his as she whispered something to him. They seemed happy, at peace with their existence, grateful for each other's company. The boy said something that made her laugh. It was a nice sound, not one he heard often and far more soothing than rattles. He wondered what the joke was, could probably have overheard it if he tried hard enough, but thought better of it. The less he knew the better, his job required a certain degree of voyeurism, but he could choose to give them the comfort of privacy, for now at least.

His eyes wandered again: the fat man's eyes were still transfixed on the screen, and the youths had also sunk into a lethargic state, barely glancing up as a haggard woman refilled their cups. He knew her story too, single mother, forced to work an extra shift because her colleague was down with a fever. He could see the sluggishness in her movements as she poured and placed cutlery and cleaned, her thoughts on her child. He had sometimes wondered if the dullness was a result of his presence, and almost longed for years gone by when he would frequent similar places and watch hale and hearty men drink and make merry. People those days were merry even when he caught up to them, people these days were sad, resigned or surprised. He would have sighed, but this routine had been on for so long he did not bother.

There was a scrape of chairs and a flicker of movement, and he saw them rise, the melancholy couple. This was a moment he had experienced more times than he could remember, but it made him feel a little hollow every time. His companion seemed to awaken from its drowsy slumber as well, he could feel it in his hands.

They left a few notes on the table and walked out hand in hand, and he followed, into a night as black as his robe.

"Come on then, old friend," he said to his scythe, "it's time for you to sing."