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by Eric Stefik

It was a late night at the office, very late for me. I should have gone home hours ago, but then I will be off tomorrow and could sleep in. I walked down a lonely downtown street and saw probably the only place open, the Rio Cafe.
The attraction was the gleaming stainless steel of the coffee urns and the smell of fresh brewed coffee wafting out to the street. I was reminded of an old Edward Hopper painting, as the patrons each huddled over their cups, saying little and glancing occasionally at their uninvited company.
The guy behind the counter seemed irritated, as I paid for my cup of coffee with a twenty. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark bags beneath, and his white uniform stained with what must have been a long day of pouring coffee from the steaming urns. I looked about and saw a somber mood among the patrons, each seeming to be lost in a world of internal confusion, not to be shared. The bitter brew was more tantalizing than the aroma I smelled outside, and the rush of caffeine soon reversed my overwhelming sense of fatigue. I turned on my stool and glanced outside, which appeared as complete darkness from the blue white fluorescent interior lighting. Morning would come soon enough.