The Last Customer

The diner was nearly empty, the kind of dead quiet that only came after midnight—booth lights dimmed to amber, pie case humming softly in the back kitchen.

Agnes wiped down the counter with practiced boredom, one hand moving in lazy circles, the rag damp and warm in her hand, and the other lifting her hot coffee.

A single customer sat at the far end—a man in a black coat, nursing a chipped white cup. Agnes swung around the counter, approached him.

“Refill?” she asked, pot in hand.

He nodded without looking up.

She poured, and glanced at the clock. 2:47 a.m. Her feet ached.

That flutter again—quick like a moth under her ribs. She pressed a hand to her chest, fingers brushing the edge of her name tag. Probably just the caffeine. 

“You waiting on someone?”

He smiled. “In a way.”

Agnes pressed her lips into a small smile and returned to the counter.

She leaned over it. “We don’t get many out-of-towners this late."

“I’m not from out of town,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Funny. I’ve worked here eighteen years and never seen you before.”

“I come when I’m needed.”

Agnes narrowed her eyes. “You a priest or something?”

“No.” He looked up, eyes dark and steady. “But I carry people over, in a sense.”

She blinked. “Like… a taxi driver?”

He chuckled, a low, soft sound. “Something like that.”

A silence settled between them. Through an opened window, dry leaves scuttled along the curb. The town slept. A dog barked once, distant and lonely, then fell silent.

Agnes went to check the register, more for something to do than out of need.

The receipt roll was nearly empty.

She made a mental note to replace it before the morning shift.

“I think it’s time,” the man said.

She looked up. “Time for what?”

He stood, smoothing his coat. “For you to come with me.”

“Excuse me?”

The man stepped closer, and suddenly the fluorescent lights above flickered. The radio cut off. The air went colder.

“You had a heart attack, Agnes,” he said gently. “About ten minutes ago. Behind the counter.”

She stared at him—at his too-steady eyes, at the way his feet didn’t quite touch the ground.

“No. I — I’m standing right here.”

He nodded toward the counter.

She didn’t want to look.

But she did. A careful, slow turn.

And there she was, collapsed behind the bar, one hand still clutching the rag.

“Oh,” she said softly.

He offered his hand. “It’s alright. Happens slower for some. You hung on longer than most.”

Agnes looked around the diner one last time—her second home, steeped in coffee, lemon pie, bleach, and the hiss of the grill. The cracked vinyl of booth six. The dent in the chrome napkin holder. Her life in fragments.

Then she took his hand.

As they stepped through the door, the neon sign flickered—and went dark.

Original Photo by Liviu Florescu on Unsplash. (Free to use under the Unsplash Liscence) Enhanced with AI assistance via ChatGPT.