After Midnight

Mercy stares at the clock on the wall. The clock stares back, ticking away. Taunting her. She wants to scream. This is her life now, an endless stream of suffering. Her shift finishes at six am. It is barely past midnight.

Only six hours left. She regrets everything.

When she’d agreed to take the night shift, after four weeks of her manager begging desperately in the group chat for someone to pick up the shift, she hadn’t imagined it would be quite so dull. Her shift, which began at ten, is eight hours long, but the cafe at night seems to exist in a realm outside of time, where one hour is the equivalent to eleven years of regular time. In the past three nights she’s done this shift she has seen a collective four customers, a group of tired college students desperate enough to drink the shitty excuse for coffee that her boss tries to pass off as premium quality stuff.

It’s the most bored she’s ever been in her life, and she’d sat through several ex-boyfriends serenading her on their acoustics guitars. She almost wishes she were experiencing that instead of this sleep deprivation induced time paradox where everything moves at a snails pace.

She’s debating the pros and cons of calling Sully for an impromptu midnight concert when she gets her first, and probably last, customers of the night.

She assumes at first that it’s those poor, unfortunate college students again, and she’s almost ready to give them a discount on what is allegedly coffee, when she manages to actually look at the group that have entered the store.

They are decidedly not college students, though they look young enough to be.

A group of girls, probably about her same age, dressed in identical crude brown vests, looking like they just lost a fight with Mike Tyson on steroids. One of them is dripping blood onto the floor from what is potentially a knife wound.

Great.

At least she’ll have something to do after they go.

Instead of just continuing to stare at the group, who seem sort of preoccupied trying to stop the massive amounts of blood from pooling on her floor, she summons what small amount of energy she has left and puts on her best customer service smile, greeting the customers as cheerfully as she can manage.

“Hey, welcome in.”

Based on the looks they give her, she hasn’t quite managed as well as she thought she might. One of them glares at her, for no apparent reason. She figures that might as well happen. The amount of blood on the floor is beginning to become a concern. She soldiers on.

“What can I get started for you tonight?” The one closest to her, a tall girl wearing what seems to be a cowboy hat, gives her what she assumes is meant to be a smile but comes off as more of a grimace.

“Six lattes please,” she says, like this is a reasonable request. “And some napkins.” She adds, shooting a glance at the ever growing puddle of blood. “A lot of napkins.”

Mercy, too tired to question this, nods her agreement. She takes a fresh pack of napkins and hurls at the cowboy wannabe, who catches it swiftly out of the air. Her friend, the one with the glare, begins to glare harder. Another woman, who looks older than the rest, if only slightly, begins to press the napkins onto the injured girls wound.

Deciding to let them be, Mercy turns to make their coffees, contemplating how much trouble she’d be in if she just left. She glances at the clock to her left. It is still only twelve-fifteen. She sort of wants to cry.

The espresso machine they have is older than her, and slower than the her grandmother trying to walk up stairs. It takes two minutes to make one shot. She decides to eavesdrop while she waits. The women are talking so loud they’re practically yelling anyway, so she only has to strain a little to hear them over the growing of the machine.

“That’s a lot of blood,” says the Cowgirl look alike, clearly a master of deduction.

“No shit.” The girl responsible for the relocation of the Red Sea into her store replies, wincing as the offer girl puts pressure on the wound.

“Watch it.” Seethes her the girl with the glare, hovering almost protectively over the injured girls shoulder. She throws what seems to be her signature look, another lethal glare, at cowgirl hat as she tries to get close.

“Ajax.” Warns the maybe-older girl, who seems to hold some sort of leadership position among their group. The newly dubbed ‘Ajax’ relents, he’d glare easing into a look of concern as she takes in the state of the injured girl.

“You’ll be fine, Rem,” assures a small Asian girl, who had been previously hovering off to the side with the rest of their little group.

“Won’t even need stitches.” Confirms the leader.

“Thanks, Fox,” the injured girl—Rem?—smiles tightly at the younger girl. Fox nods, giving her uninjured arm a comforting squeeze. “Cleon.” She gives a nod of thanks to the girl who was pressing her wound.

Mercy turns back to the coffee just in time for the last shot to finish, only then realising she forgot to heat the milk. With ‘Rem’ apparently out of danger, Ajax has resumed glaring menacingly across the room, as if that will make her go any faster. She walks to the fridge as slowly as possible, because she refuses to be intimidated by someone named after one of the worst characters in the Odyssey.

She begins to listen with interest as the conversation resumes, balancing the milk precariously on the edge of the espresso machine.

“That was close,” Cowgirl laughs, landing carelessly in the seat closest to her. The other women, evidently realising their coffees won’t be done any time soon, follow suit.

“Damn right it was,” Cleon agrees, seeming troubled, but also a little proud? She sends an appreciative glance at the only girl who’s yet to speak, hovering awkwardly at the back of Fox’s chair. “You really saved us back there, Cochise.”

Cochise smiles thinly, seeming hesitant to accept the praise. “Nah, it was nothing.” She shrugs. “Ajax did most of the heavy lifting.” Ajax is too busy whispering into Rem’s ear to reply to this comment, so the conversation moves on.

“Would’ve been easier if Swan had’ve been there.” Fox comments lightly, seeming troubled by the absence. Mercy means to listen in and hear more, but then she notices the milk starting to burn, so she sacrifices her chance at hearing any good gossip for the sake of keeping her job.

“Six lattes!” She calls, louder than necessary, and hands them the drinks of varying quality. Four of them come to collect the drinks as Ajax ushers Rem out the door, a steadying hand on her waste. Cowgirl smiles, dipping her head in thanks as she follows after them. Cleon hands her a fifty, and sticks an additional ten in the empty tip jar, leaving before she can hand her the change.

Mercy sighs as she stares at the trail of blood left behind, trying and failing to work up the energy to make a mop. The clock on the wall reads twelve-thirty. She resigns herself to her fate.

Outside, she hears a series of gags as several of the women spit their coffee onto the pavement. “Damn,” Cowgirl swears, almost sounding impressed. “I didn’t know you could make coffee this shit.” She practically yells. Her friends chorus their agreement, shuffling away from the coffee shop in a flurry of complaints about the quality of her work.

She stares after them for half a second, almost offended. The pool of blood continues to seep into her floor, mocking her. This is her life now.

She should’ve stuck with the day shift.