Page 45 of Midsummer Phoenixes
Enter
YouwalkintotheMoonlight Diner. You read good things about the place—the baba ghanoush is divine, and the wait staff is friendly. The coffee is hot and strong and the pie the best in the city. Some reviews even said the servers will dress up and dance during Pride.
But that’s not what you’re here for. Elsewhere on the Internet, you read different things.
Above your head, a bell chimes and announces your arrival. Warmth welcomes you, and the subtle scent of freshly brewed coffee, even though it’s one in the morning on a Tuesday.
“Welcome to the Moonlight Diner,” says a server from behind the counter to your right.
He looks normal, you think. Sort of tall, but not out of the ordinary tall. Warm brown hair, blue eyes that you really only notice because he wears a blue shirt—and a matching bow tie of all things.
You nod instead of responding and look around. There are free booths, but not quite as many as you would have imagined. Again, it’s Tuesday and the middle of the night. You did not expect that many insomniacs to congregate here.
You pick a corner booth on the opposite end of the diner. It’s a nice place, really. The booth seats match the blue theme as does the floor, and the table is spotless. Salt and pepper shakers are arranged neatly next to the sugar and a selection of satchels of other sweeteners.
You shrug out of your jacket when you’re already sitting down, and before you are quite done with that awkward move, the server is at your table, giving you a smile that sits perfectly between polite and too enthusiastic. He slides a menu on the table right in front of you.
“You’re lucky, the kitchen’s still open, but I don’t think for much longer. Can I get you coffee while you decide?”
You say yes. You aren’t sure you want the coffee, but you’re curious whether the reviews were right about it. It’s difficult to know when to trust the Internet these days.
“Right away,” the server says, his smile warming before he turns to walk away again.
He looks like a regular guy. It makes you wonder whether the people in the forum were right about this place. You were about to dismiss it entirely the other night, but then the thread vanished, and you decided to check out this diner, just in case.
So you peruse the menu. It’s very stylish, all blue and silver, a crescent moon and a coffee cup decorating the corners, artsy swirls between the columns of food on offer.
The pancakes look interesting, but so do the sandwiches. They have quiche and flaky pastry vegetable rolls. Then you see the special of the day. It says to ask the server what it is or to just order and let yourself be surprised.
Is that code? Will they think you are in the know if you order the special? It might be a test.
Somewhat sad about the pancakes, you order the special when the smiling server comes back to your table and pours you a nice cup of coffee.
“Good choice. Kasey’s really proud of today’s special,” the server tells you, and your suspicion about it being code deepens. “Kasey is in charge of the kitchen tonight,” the server explains. More code? “Would you like cream with your coffee?”
You tell him no, and he walks off, looking up at the large clock that hangs on the wall behind the counter like a moon in the night sky.
“Kasey,” the server says, peering through the passthrough that opens to the kitchen. At least, you assume it’s the kitchen.
You only just manage to catch a glimpse of the cook. He’s an albino. Unusual, but in and of itself not what you’re here for. Still, his hair looks weird. You aren’t sure exactly, and maybe he just had it up as a matter of health and safety regulations, but you could have sworn it moved strangely.
But you aren’t a fool, not about to make a tale out of nothing, least of all something you only saw for the fraction of a second. You look around the diner at the other people out so late for food and drink.
There is a big man sitting at the corner of the bar counter. For the space he takes up, he manages to fade into the background with surprising ease.
On a table closer to yours, a guy in a black hoodie has a laptop open. You don’t see a sign anywhere that advertises free Wi-Fi. Another oddness then. Or a case of annoying roommates that drove the hoodie-wearer to seek shelter here.
A man at the table closest to the door catches your attention. He’s looking at you, his eyes strangely piercing. He has salt and pepper hair and isn’t otherwise remarkable, but you find yourself unable to look away for a good five seconds. Only when he looks back down at his phone do you blink.
You’re pretty sure that wasn’t instant attraction but something else. It’s just not enough to make you believe that the Moonlight Diner is a gateway to a reality that should best be left in fiction. It’s also not nothing.
Triplets sharing their food and talking quietly while they swap plates and reach over each other to get to what they want sit pretty much in the center of the diner’s row of booths. Triplets are rare but not magical, and the sandy-haired three feature neither horns nor tails but still, you wonder.
The server rounds the counter to check on them. “Another round of drinks?” he asks, collecting three empty glasses on a tray.
“Two more cherry milkshakes and one of your super creamy chai lattes, please,” says one of them.
If he consulted with the others, you missed that, and you ask yourself: is this a secret triplet language thing, or do they read minds?
