Fragments Of A Night...

12th of February 1942, somewhere in America.

Mike knew it was her. He recognised the fragrance she was wearing; the certain click-clack of her heels. The way she walked was so distinctive and familiar at the same time. He knew she'd follow him here and so he did not even look up when she pulled up a stool right next to him.

"Love this diner. I come here all the time for the variety they have. So many options...," Karen remarked snidely, dismissively observing the non-existent decorations on the walls and the minimum of accessories on the counter, "why are you making that face?"

"What face?," Mike managed when she, maybe a bit too haughtily just now, handed him her coat, expecting him to take care of it.

"That face! Are you going to start being fun to be around or are you planning on growing more sullen all night?"

"Oh please, Karen, wasn’t the evening unpleasant enough? I don't think we need another sequel of this. We're certainly not here for that" He spoke the words without much audible emotion in his voice. Annoyance would be more accurate to put it, Karen noticed.

"What else are we here for, then? You did not enjoy the party?" It was more than obvious that he had not and Karen didn't even know why she had asked him this, but it seemed to her this was their challenge and she should address it. 

"Well," Mike replied, "strange as it may seem, I can't help thinking we agreed on something important for tonight, did we not? Why did you not tell them?"

Karen bristled at that. Ah, now. Right. Heavens, he was really mad at her. She was almost invisible to him. Why did he pretrend to be fine when he was anthing but? It was not being mad at her she suddenly realised. It was disappointment and lots of frustration she could read in his face, in his body language, in his highly reserved tone. "Look," Karen said nonchalantly, "it was surely not the right moment to tell them, wouldn't you say? But if it does mean anything to you, I'd lov--"

"It doesn't!" Mike snapped and finally turned to look at her. She was so beautiful in her red dress and he loved the way she wore her hair. At what point, he wondered, had he made it on her list of people that can't be trusted? Right at the beginning of their relationship some months ago? Last week? Two hours ago at the party? 

"Do you want me to go?" Karen asked quietly. 

"Do you want to go?"

She hated when he answered a question with a question. "No, I don't," she said firmly, turning her head to him and looking him straight in the eyes. He was close enough to touch, all she had to do was move her fingers. She’d never wanted to more. It had never been less apt right now. Then, the split second was gone. They continued to look at each other.

"Hey Mike, want another coffee once you have finished fighting?" The words popped out of his mouth before the boy behind the counter had even finished thinking them. He was squirming a bit in the light of his courage to cut in and ease the palpable tension between those two.

At this point, the sinister guy looked up. It was the first time he moved. Over arguing, Mike and Karen hadn't even noticed he was still present. The man got up from his seat and looked at them for a couple of seconds.  "Listen, both of you," he told them with a tired but cultured voice. He had a hint of an accent Mike and Karen couldn't quite place. Somewhere up north, maybe Seattle. "Your arguing's none of my business, of course. Anyway, a word of friendly advice. You should feel lucky.  You’re being together and, instead of trying to kill each other, you should perhaps appreciate every second of it. Goodnight"  And he was leaving.

This, John thought, when pausing outside and inhaling deeply, was just what he needed- the fresh air and quietness of a February night to recover his spirits after the painful goodbye earlier and that troublesome quarrel between the couple in the diner. And he thought of her, knowing she was sitting in an automat right now, waiting for her train. He can still feel her fingers, intertwined with his all afternoon. Without the need of words between them it had been the only physical touch they had allowed each other. He had liked that. They didn't know whether they could meet again, whether it was possible to ever spend some hours again. It had made both of them sad and kind of hopeless for a moment. But there was always hope, was there not? She had said so, too. He will write her a letter as soon as he gets home. She will receive it on Valentine's Day.  The thought made him smile. 

References: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nighthawks. 'Nighthawks' by Edward Hopper, 1942