Scrap

3:34 a.m.

A man walked into the diner. Insomniac, the waitress thought. That world-wearied look told it all, and he knew it. The way he walked-- shoulders slumped, head down, dazed-- told it all, and he knew it. Like a man stranded, staring out at an unfamiliar coast. Taking a booth, the same waitress noted down the coffee he mumbled. She began to turn away, but he reached out a heavy hand to call her back.

"Make that a pot, if you please."

Insomniac, her look said. He read it loud and clear.

3:41 a.m.

Filling the chipped mug nearly to the brim, the man relished the smell of the scalding liquid. He pulled a handful of paper scraps from his pocket and scattered them. Taking a burning gulp of coffee, he set down the mug and absent-mindedly began unfolding the papers. He dug around for a moment beneath the table, his hand emerging again with a stump of pencil. He laid it down beside the mug.

3:48 a.m.

Lifting the pencil once more, this man pulled one of the scraps towards him. Staring intently at it for a moment, he eventually moved the lead to paper.

YOU

He paused, evaluating this one word, measuring every stroke and line. Slowly raising his hand, he drew a horizontal line through the word, putting it aside.

YOU

I ONLY WANTED YOU TO KNOW

He looked at this too, eventually shaking his head slightly. After a moment more of observation, these too he crossed off with one careful slash.

I ONLY WANTED YOU TO KNOW

4:02 a.m.

Taking the paperboy cap from his head, he pulled a lead-stained hand across his face, leaving barely-visible streaks. He bore down on yet a third scrap of paper, this time with the most conviction. He wrote slowly, carving straight, graphite valleys.

I FELT THE WEIGHT
OF SORROW

Looking at this one undecidedly, he placed it atop the coffee cup's saucer, propped up for observation. He nodded minutely and scattered the remaining papers more. The waitress walked by again, glancing at the only customer at this hour, who was staring fixedly at a scrap of paper. Definite insomniac, he saw her think. He couldn't deny it, really.

4:11 a.m.

Finally moving once more, he started in again, crossing scrap after scrap of paper.

UNFAMILIAR COAST

I WAS A...

The one scrap of paper that had not been crossed off still leaned carefully in the man's saucer, drawing his gaze between failed attempts. Finally, he put down the pencil and just stared at it. What's it mean? He pierced daggers through the little paper with his eyes for what seemed like years.

4:27 a.m.

The man reached for the pot of coffee that had, till then, stood neglected on his table. Pouring himself another cup, he yawned impressively. Insomniac, he thought to himself, fuck..

There was only one square of paper left on the table, and he glared at it resentfully. What do you want from me, anyways? He finally began to write.

IN THE MOUTH OF
AN ANGRY HARBOUR

This paper he propped up beside the only other that hadn't been crossed off, contemplating them for a moment. He nodded absently and stayed to finish his pot of coffee.

4:42 a.m.

As the man drained the last drops of coffee from his mug, he pulled a small memo pad from his pocket, using the pencil stub to quickly scrawl into it the words from the paper scraps. He stood up, yawned once more, and replaced the cap on his head. Reaching across the table, he swept the scratched-off bits of paper into a small pile, crumpling them into a ball and tossing them into the mug. The two other scraps he left there, along with a generous tip. Making for the door, he thanked the waitress politely.

4:46 a.m.

The waitress collected the mug and coffee pot, pausing to take the bill left by the customer and tuck it neatly into her apron's pouch. Picking up the saucer, she glanced the two scraps of paper.

I felt the weight of sorrow in the mouth of an angry harbour

She folded them carefully and pocketed them.

8:13 p.m.

She was running late; her shift at the diner had started at eight o'clock. Impatiently waiting at the stoplight, she noticed the building across the street. That wasn't there yesterday. She contemplated the mural and reached into her purse. The two bits of paper in her grasp, she opened them carefully and looked down at the words once more. Then she looked at the mural and smiled to herself.

Amid the spiraling and intertwining ropes of colour were words, printed boldly:

I FELT THE WEIGHT OF SORROW
IN THE MOUTH OF AN ANGRY HARBOUR
insomniac

Yes, she thought, insomniac indeed. Nobody came in to the diner at 3:34 a.m. during her shift, but she thought she could expect somebody one of these nights.