Last Cup
The bell over the diner door gave a weak jangle.
She stepped inside.
It smelled like every roadside dive—burnt coffee, fryer grease, mop water missing the corners. A farmer hunched at the counter, hands around a chipped mug. Soil and sweat clung to his flannel, damp under the arms. His boots scraped the stool’s rung with each restless shift.
The waitress didn’t look up. Wiped a table with a rag older than sin. Then nodded at the booths. “Sit anywhere.”
The woman slid into cracked vinyl. The seat hissed, foam collapsing. She folded her hands. Stared at the menu without seeing it. Outside, the neon sign buzzed, casting a sickly red glow across the glass.
The waitress approached, pad in hand. Face lined, eyes sharp, missing nothing. A thin silver bracelet jangled loose on her wrist, too big for her now. She smelled of cigarettes and lemon soap.
“What’ll it be?”
“Coffee.”
“Cream or sugar?”
“Black.”
The waitress gave a tight nod. Walked off.
The farmer cleared his throat. Sipped slow. Set his mug down with a hollow clink. Bacon sizzled in the kitchen, cutting the quiet.
The waitress returned, slid the mug across. Dark liquid sloshed. The woman cupped it, heat soaking her cold fingers. Didn’t drink.
The waitress studied her. Quick, not rude. Just enough. “Heading home or leaving it?”
The question landed like a stone in still water.
The woman blinked. Looked at the steam curling off her cup. “Leaving,” she said, voice low. “I think.”
The waitress nodded, like she’d seen her kind before. “Coffee’s strong. Might keep you up.”
The woman’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. She sipped. Bitter. Burnt. Real.
The farmer shifted. Boots scraped the floor. Muttered about rain coming. The waitress grunted back.
The woman traced a scratch on the table. J + S, carved deep in the laminate, a pocketknife’s work. She wondered if they’d lasted.
The waitress returned with the pot. Topped her off. “Where you headed?”
“Don’t know.”
“Everybody knows.”
She shook her head. “Not me.”
The waitress leaned on the table, pad forgotten in her apron. “Nobody stops here by chance. Too far off the highway. You’re running to something or from it.”
“Maybe both.”
The waitress didn’t push. Refilled the farmer’s mug. Vanished into the kitchen.
The woman sipped again. Heat spread through her chest. The knot in her stomach held.
She tried to picture home. A house she didn’t own anymore. Rooms that smelled of him, six months gone. Black coffee, no sugar—he’d called it a kid’s drink. She hated it then. Drank it that way now.
She closed her eyes. Saw the fights. The nights he didn’t come home. The morning she walked out, meaning to fix it.
Then the phone call.
Too late.
She swallowed hard. Opened her eyes. The neon buzzed, flickered twice.
The waitress slid into the booth across her, no permission asked. Arms folded, chipped nail picking at itself.
“Leaving,” she said, testing the word. “What’s waiting out there?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why not turn around?”
“Nothing back there either.”
The farmer coughed, gravel in his throat. Drained his mug.
The waitress’s eyes stayed steady, not unkind. “Got kids?”
“No.”
“Family?”
“Not anymore.”
She tapped the table. Thought it over. “Then you’re free.”
The woman gave a dry laugh. “Feels heavy.”
“Freedom weighs more than you think.”
They sat in silence. The fridge hummed. Pans clattered in the back. The jukebox droned a low country tune nobody picked.
The woman drained half her cup. Hands trembled against the ceramic.
The waitress leaned forward. “Ever think about stopping?”
“Stopping what?”
“Running.”
The woman looked at her. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. A face that hadn’t slept in days. “I don’t know how,” she whispered.
The waitress nodded, like she’d expected it. “Nobody does. You just stop. See what’s left.”
“Nothing’s left.”
“You’re wrong. There’s always something. Might not be pretty. Might not be what you wanted. But it’s there.”
The farmer stood, dropped crumpled bills on the counter, left without a word. The bell jangled. Rain tapped the windows, soft, then harder.
The woman drained her cup. Bitter dregs. Pushed it away. “Guess that’s it.”
The waitress didn’t move. “Want another?”
She shook her head. “Last cup.”
She stood, pulled bills from her pocket, set them on the table. Fingers lingered, like letting go hurt.
The waitress caught her wrist. Grip firm, eyes steady. “You don’t gotta go through with it.”
The woman froze. “What?”
“I’ve seen that look. Don’t pretend I haven’t. You’re thinking this is the end.”
Her throat tightened. No words came.
The waitress’s grip softened. She pulled up her sleeve. Showed a thin scar across her wrist, faded but clear. “I’ve been there.”
The woman stared. The room shrank. The fridge’s hum grew louder.
The waitress stood, took the empty mug. “Leave if you want. Your choice. But don’t let this be your last stop. Don’t let me be the last face you see.”
The woman’s chest ached, something breaking loose. She grabbed her coat. Pulled it tight. Headed for the door.
The bell jangled as she stepped into the rain.
Cold drops slid down her collar, plastered her hair. She shivered. A truck idled at the lot’s edge, headlights off, engine a low growl. She didn’t look at it. Didn’t need to.
Her hand slipped into her pocket. Closed around the wedding band. Gripped it until it cut her palm.
She pulled it out. Held it up. Rain washed over it.
Then she dropped it.
It hit the pavement with a soft clink. Rolled once. Settled in a puddle, half-submerged.
She stared. Waited for a sign. Nothing came.
The diner door opened. The waitress stepped out, holding a battered umbrella and a steaming mug. No coat. Rain soaked her sneakers.
She didn’t speak. Set the mug on the curb. “Still hot.” She turned and walked back inside.
The woman stared at the mug. Steam curled into the night, defiant against the cold. She bent down. Picked up the ring, slick and cold. Picked up the cup, warmth seeping into her palm.
Held both.
Her chest loosened, just a fraction.
The truck’s engine revved once, then pulled away, tires hissing on wet pavement.
She turned toward the diner. The bell jangled as she stepped inside. The waitress didn’t look surprised. Nodded at the booth. “Still warm.”
The woman slid into the seat, water dripping off her coat, hair clinging to her cheeks. She set the ring on the table. Set the mug beside it.
The waitress gave a small nod. “Not your last cup, then.”
Outside, the rain slowed to a drizzle, the neon sign steady now.