The diner’s neon sign buzzed like a dying fly outside, flickering red against the window. The booth you and Wayne shared was sticky with old syrup, the kind of place where the coffee came free because it shouldn’t cost money. You loved it, though- the cozy hum of bad jazz through the speakers, the comfort of bitter caffeine and shared silence.

Wayne didn’t love it. Actually, he hated it. Every sip of that coffee was a small act of torture- hot, bitter, acid-scorched nonsense. He’d grown up drinking gas station soda and warm tap water; this tasted like someone wrung out an old mop into a mug. But you liked it, so he drank it. Three cups of the stuff. Three whole cups, because you smiled when he did.

When you slid out of the booth to go to the bathroom, Wayne exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. He stared at the murky sludge in his cup, debating whether to throw it out the window or himself. Before he could decide, the waitress with tired eyes, fake lashes, and a voice like a lit cigarette walked up, coffee pot in hand.

“Refill, sweetheart?” she chirped, already tipping the pot. Wayne moved to cover his cup with his hand.

“No.”

The pot tipped anyway. Scalding coffee splashed across his skin, steaming instantly. The smell hit before the pain did- burnt beans and burnt Wayne. The waitress gasped, jerking the pot back.

”Oh my god! Oh my- are you okay?” she said in a panic and Wayne blinked once. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pull his hand away. Just stared at it, red and dripping, like it had mildly inconvenienced him.

“That’s the most vile tasting drink I’ve ever had,”