Coffee and the Midnight Regular
Coffee and the Midnight Regular I work the overnight shift at a 24-hour coffee shop in downtown, and 3 AM is a different world from any other hour. During the day, the place is all movement and noise. Office workers line up with their phones in one hand and their wallets in the other. Delivery drivers come in smelling like rain and gasoline. People argue quietly over laptops, hold meetings beside the pastry case, and complain if their oat milk takes more than thirty seconds to steam. By 3 AM, all of that is gone. The traffic outside thins to the occasional taxi or bus. The tall buildings across the street are mostly dark, their windows reflecting the blue-white glow of our sign. Inside, the refrigerators hum, the ice machine clicks every few minutes, and the espresso machine hisses like it is breathing in its sleep. The people who come in at that hour are different, too. We have regulars, of course. There is a guy who writes poetry in a black notebook for six hours at a time. He always sits near the window and fills page after page without ever looking up. There is a nurse who comes in at the end of her twelve-hour shift, still wearing her scrubs, and orders a triple-shot espresso with two packets of sugar. She usually looks so tired that I worry she might fall asleep standing up. And then there was the man in the beige trench coat. I first noticed him three weeks before anything strange happened. He came in at exactly 3:15 AM. I remember because I was wiping down the counter and the digital clock above the pastry case changed from 3:14 to 3:15 just as the door opened. He was probably in his fifties, though it was hard to tell. His hair was gray around the sides, and his face had the pale, worn-out look of someone who did not sleep much. He wore the same beige trench coat every night, even when the weather was warm. The coat was buttoned all the way to his neck, and the belt hung loose around his waist. He never ordered anything. The first night, I assumed he was deciding what he wanted. He walked past the menu, past the pastry case, and went straight to the booth in the back corner. It was the booth farthest from the counter, partly hidden by a tall decorative plant that had been dying for at least a year. He sat down and placed both hands on the table. I waited for him to call me over. He never did. After twenty minutes, I figured he had changed his mind. I expected him to leave, but he stayed until my shift ended at six. He did not use his phone, read a book, or look at the television mounted above the counter. He simply stared at the empty chair across from him. The next night, he came back at 3:15. Then the night after that. By the end of the first week, I had started noticing little things. He always sat with his back straight, as if someone important were sitting across from him. Sometimes he nodded. Sometimes he tilted his head, listening. Once, he lifted one finger, as if asking the person in the chair to wait. I told myself he was having some kind of episode, or maybe he was rehearsing a conversation. People did strange things at 3 AM. I had seen customers cry into their coffee, sleep with their heads on tables, and whisper into disconnected phones. None of it was my business unless someone became dangerous. Still, I watched him. One night, after he had been sitting there for almost an hour, I made a cup of decaf. I do not know why. Maybe I felt sorry for him. Maybe I wanted to prove to myself that he was ordinary and would respond like anyone else if I treated him normally. I carried the cup over and set it near his hands. “Here you go,” I said. “It’s on the house.” He did not look at me. His eyes stayed fixed on the empty chair. Up close, I could see how tired he looked. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his skin had a grayish color beneath the yellow light from the ceiling. “Do you need anything else?” I asked. “Water, maybe?” For a few seconds, he said nothing. Then he leaned slightly toward the empty chair. “She doesn’t like it when you interrupt,” he whispered. The words were quiet, but I heard them clearly. I looked at the chair. There was nothing on it. No coat, no bag, no shadow except the one cast by the overhead light. I felt a chill move up my back. It had nothing to do with the air conditioning. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I stepped away from the table and returned to the counter. My hands were shaking badly enough that I had to put them flat on the work surface. The decaf sat untouched between him and the empty chair. From behind the espresso machine, I kept watching. At first, he was completely still. Then he began to laugh. It was not a loud laugh. It was soft and low, more like a private chuckle, but in the empty shop it carried farther than it should have. He leaned back in the booth and smiled at the chair as if someone had just told him an amusing story. I stood there with a towel in my hand, pretending to polish the same section of counter over and over. A few minutes later, my manager came out from the back room. He had been doing inventory and was carrying a clipboard. He stopped when he saw me. “Why do you keep looking over there?” he asked. I glanced toward the booth. The man was still sitting there, still wearing the beige coat, still focused on the empty chair. “I’m just keeping an eye on things,” I said. My manager frowned. “Is he bothering anyone?” “No. Not exactly.” He followed my gaze. For a moment, he squinted toward the back corner, then walked over. I watched him pass directly beside the booth. He did not speak to the man. He did not even slow down. He checked the trash bin near the wall, picked up a napkin from the floor, and returned to the counter. I waited until he was beside me again. “Do you know that guy?” I asked. My manager looked at me. “What guy?” “The man in the corner.” He glanced over my shoulder, then back at me. His expression changed from confusion to concern. “There’s nobody in the corner,” he said. My stomach dropped. I turned around. The booth was empty. There was no beige trench coat. No man. No cup of decaf. Nothing. The chair across from the booth was pushed in neatly, and the table looked exactly as it had before he arrived. I could see the clean shine of the laminate beneath the fluorescent lights. I walked over because I did not know what else to do. I checked beneath the table, behind the plant, and near the wall. The seat was dry and clean. There was no sign that anyone had been sitting there for the last hour, let alone three weeks. My manager kept asking if I was all right, but I could not explain what I had seen. Every explanation sounded worse when I tried to say it out loud. I did not sleep for two days after that. Now, whenever 3 AM gets close, I turn on every light in the shop. I keep the front doors locked between customers, even though we are supposed to leave them open. I make sure the security monitor is facing the back corner, and I never sit with my back to it. The nurse still comes in after her shift. The poet still fills his notebook by the window. They have both asked me why I look so tired, and I tell them I am working too many hours. I never mention the man in the trench coat. Sometimes, when the shop is perfectly still, I hear something from the back corner. It is faint, almost buried beneath the refrigerator’s hum and the ticking wall clock. A soft, low laugh. When that happens, I keep my eyes on the espresso machine. I steam the milk. I wipe the counter. I pretend I am the only living person in the building. Because the alternative is just too much to process.