Prologue: The StoryA Chapter by Not here She Watches All “Anything to drink, sir? Maybe an iced-” “No,” the grim-faced man interrupted. Raising his head, topped with thinning, gray hair, he added, “I’m waiting on someone.” “Well, while you wait, could I help you to a pastry? Today, you can get a-” “I’m just fine, thank you,” he cut in with a clear, back-off attitude. Turning her back, the waitress stormed away, probably towards another employee who she could complain to. Most mornings like this, when the sun was bright, shining through the cloudless sky, the customers were kind and carefree. Lots of them were elderly folks, coming in for the morning coffee and talk with friends; a few were younger and ate more, occasionally tipping extra too. This man was different; his face grave and hands shaky, he refused to talk with anyone. Instead, he sat solemnly, staring out the window. Strangers passed by, and he saw them, but at the same time did not. What occurred around him was of no interest; he looked to the future with a wary gaze, uncertain and nervous. “That man hasn’t moved in nearly half an hour,” one elderly lady named Beth said to her friend. With a quick nod in his direction, she convinced her crossword-solving companion to look up from the daily puzzle in the newspaper. “Are you certain?” she asked with a mindless, tired sort of voice. “Quite. He’s hardly even blinked since he sat down.” “Why didn’t the girl wait on him?” the friend absentmindedly asked, returning to her crossword puzzle. “She did; the man told her off,” Beth answered. Sipping her early morning coffee, she looked at him a while longer, wondering to herself why on earth someone would choose to sit inside on a beautiful day like this. At that moment, he turned to face her. With a devilish smile, in an instant, he winked. Ten minutes later, the two ladies were gone. Why on earth was he inside on such a lovely day? He could have been outside; walking in Pine Tree Park would be comfortably pleasant on a midday like this. In fact, Hardy was chock-full of interesting places to be and unique things to see. Being a small town with only a handful of streets at its core, odd sights were bound to pop out at you, whether you went searching for them or not. There was the handful of flea markets on the corner of Market Street and 1st Street. Lots of trinkets and toys could be found in the dark corners of that place, hidden for years and forgotten. The cashiers and, at times, customers were just as interesting; after all, the most interesting people are those shadowed in doubt and unknown pasts. Hardly ever sinister, they were still people you did not want catching you gawking at them, so let’s move along before they catch our eyes. Just past Market Street, the northernmost road at the center of Hardy, there were the many fields. Corn and soybeans were the biggest crops; soybeans to the north and corn to the west. If you followed Highway 62, which ran through the center of Hardy, you would see all of these fields, until you drove down into the center of town and turned left or right, depending on which way you came from. There you would turn onto Main Street, and, following it, would eventually arrive at the corner of Fourth and Main. First, Second, and so on streets ran vertically, while Main Street and a handful of others were horizontal, forming a neat-looking town, where every block was perfectly shaped in a square. This particular corner was not the busiest, but by far not the emptiest. People hustled about, doing whatever they did and staring at whatever they saw. There would be a diner at this corner, with a handful of these people inside, and the number growing larger every minute. Inside, at a table in the center, facing the street, would be two men. One had his palms clasped firmly in his lap, trying to hide the shaking fingers. Sweat trickled down the back of his head, which was topped with thinning, gray hair. His face would be familiar to you; he was the first man, who blew off the waitress and sat, staring outside for nearly half an hour, until he overheard the lady talking about him. Turning his head, he had winked at her. After hurriedly tipping the waitress and paying, she and her friend had rushed out, unnerved and fearful of him. That was nearly an hour ago, though. Since then, many customers had come and gone, leaving him alone there, still watching, still sitting. Now, he had a companion, both welcome and hated, loved and unwelcome. His companion sat stiff and upright, feeling the power he controlled and knowing things this older, rude man did not, and would not, want to know. A hat was pulled low over the companion’s face, blocking his eyes from view. Wearing a dark coat, even though the temperature outside recommended a t-shirt, he sipped on a cup of bitter tea and intently focused on the man across from him, who was sweating nervously and wiping his forehead with a napkin that same waitress had reluctantly given him after he blew her off. “How are you today, Steven?” the stranger asked calmly. “Better before you sat down,” the balding man, whose name was apparently Steven, replied, placing a hand on his head. “Oh, come now. What way is that to talk to an old friend?” “That was a long time ago. Old friend or not, I don’t wanna get into this business.” “But you don’t even know what happened, Steven? You’ve been-” “Out west, yeah. It’s your fault I was sent out there. And I know enough of what happened to want out. This isn’t good business, and I’d rather be alive still come Christmas-time.” The stranger sipped his bitter tea through pursed lips and mused, “Wouldn’t we all.” “Why did you want to meet me, anyways? They’re done now; won’t happen again for twenty years.” Steven asked, his hands shaking badly. With his dark coat ruffling at his movements, the stranger shook his head solemnly and placed the tea on the table. “They’re not done for me, Steven.” “What do you mean?” The man with the dark coat folded his elbows on the table and said to Steven, “Would you like to hear a story? The entire story? About what happened, right here in this town, not so long ago…” © 2015 Not hereAuthor's Note
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