Midnight Meal

The stoneware pulls my wrist down, dense as a brick cooled in wet mud. Past the Formica counter, the griddle spits and hums, a steady rasp like rain hitting a tin roof, butter skittering across the iron like beads of mercury. I cut through a fried egg, yolk spilling slow, warm and thick as melted wax. The neon clock ticks loudly, through the window, the dark is solid, stacked up outside like coal in a cellar. I drink black coffee, bitter at the back of my throat, and watch the steam fade into the cold overhead lights.