by Isha Singh
There was something about breakfast after a job well-done. It was like the world exhaled with us; the low hum of conversation drifting over the tables, silverware clinking gently against ceramic, red-cushioned booths melding faintly to our backs.
It wasn’t the syrup spilling in tendrils across golden-capped pancakes, thick as molasses and pooling in the ridges like gold in a riverbed, its crisp edges underneath curling like the malted leaves of autumn. The sunlight slanted through streaked windows and caught on sugar dust fine as sand. That didn’t comfort me either.
It all came from the simple, immeasurable relief of knowing we’d gotten away with it.
Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? We could sit, legs stretched under the tables, laughing low under our breaths. We could lick sugar off our thumbs like a standard pair of blue-collar workers shaking off the long night. But the difference—the real, genuine difference—was that somewhere out there, a body lay cool beneath the duckweed. Sirens were wailing. There was a poor somebody, somewhere, staring at the flashing red and blue on the news, fingers shaking on their remote, knowing the message was for them.
But my job wasn’t to care about the aftermath.
Rody’s mug was half full and the bitter scent of coffee rose in the steam. I flicked open my Zippo with a sharp click that split the silence. A cigarette hung limply between my lip, and I brought the flame to the tip—watching it catch. This distinct warmth bloomed in my mouth.
“What a disgusting habit.” Rody muttered, muffled by the rim of his coffee cup. I let the lighter snap shut, loud and punctuating. Then, I set the lighter down on the table and leaned back into the sticky vinyl seat. Smoke curled between us, thin and slow.
Outside, the morning sky was pale. It was streaked with greys that reminded me of damp fur. It was like all the bright colours of the sunrise had been washed away. I doubted they’d found the body yet, thinking about it for more than a minute. Maybe later, some unlucky bushwalker out for a stroll would stumble across it. They’d notice the strange red ripples in the stagnant water. But not this second.
“You eating that?” Rody asked, his voice a low grumble. I pushed the half-touched plate toward him. It was enough of an answer.
An hour later, when my cigarette was stubbed out on the table, the last embers already caught in dying light—and the police cars came shooting past the diner, we got up from the seats we were glued to. I grabbed the jacket slumped across the booth and shrugged it on.
“Let’s get.” I turned my head to Rody. “I rented Jaws back at the motel. You want to watch it with me?” “Yeah.” Rody placed the fork onto the wiped-out plate. “Alright.”
Isha Singh is a sixteen year old writer based in Perth, WA. She takes inspiration from authors such as Craig Silvey and Donna Tartt, and she has a unique voice in her writing thanks to her position on the spectrum and her studies of all kinds of literature. Isha hopes to be a creative writer one day and wants to inspire people with her prose and stories.
Hyades Magazine 