8. You Walk into the Moonlight Diner
You Walk into the Moonlight Diner
Enter
Y ou walk into the Moonlight Diner. You read good things about the place—the baba ghanoush is divine, and the wait staff is friendly. The coffee is hot and strong and the pie the best in the city. Some reviews even said the servers will dress up and dance during Pride.
But that’s not what you’re here for. Elsewhere on the Internet, you read different things.
Above your head, a bell chimes and announces your arrival. Warmth welcomes you, and the subtle scent of freshly brewed coffee, even though it’s one in the morning on a Tuesday.
“Welcome to the Moonlight Diner,” says a server from behind the counter to your right.
He looks normal, you think. Sort of tall, but not out of the ordinary tall. Warm brown hair, blue eyes that you really only notice because he wears a blue shirt—and a matching bow tie of all things.
You nod instead of responding and look around. There are free booths, but not quite as many as you would have imagined. Again, it’s Tuesday and the middle of the night. You did not expect that many insomniacs to congregate here.
You pick a corner booth on the opposite end of the diner. It’s a nice place, really. The booth seats match the blue theme as does the floor, and the table is spotless. Salt and pepper shakers are arranged neatly next to the sugar and a selection of satchels of other sweeteners.
You shrug out of your jacket when you’re already sitting down, and before you are quite done with that awkward move, the server is at your table, giving you a smile that sits perfectly between polite and too enthusiastic. He slides a menu on the table right in front of you.
“You’re lucky, the kitchen’s still open, but I don’t think for much longer. Can I get you coffee while you decide?”
You say yes. You aren’t sure you want the coffee, but you’re curious whether the reviews were right about it. It’s difficult to know when to trust the Internet these days.
“Right away,” the server says, his smile warming before he turns to walk away again.
He looks like a regular guy. It makes you wonder whether the people in the forum were right about this place. You were about to dismiss it entirely the other night, but then the thread vanished, and you decided to check out this diner, just in case.
So you peruse the menu. It’s very stylish, all blue and silver, a crescent moon and a coffee cup decorating the corners, artsy swirls between the columns of food on offer.
The pancakes look interesting, but so do the sandwiches. They have quiche and flaky pastry vegetable rolls. Then you see the special of the day. It says to ask the server what it is or to just order and let yourself be surprised.
Is that code? Will they think you are in the know if you order the special? It might be a test.
Somewhat sad about the pancakes, you order the special when the smiling server comes back to your table and pours you a nice cup of coffee.
“Good choice. Kasey’s really proud of today’s special,” the server tells you, and your suspicion about it being code deepens. “Kasey is in charge of the kitchen tonight,” the server explains. More code? “Would you like cream with your coffee?”
You tell him no, and he walks off, looking up at the large clock that hangs on the wall behind the counter like a moon in the night sky.
“Kasey,” the server says, peering through the passthrough that opens to the kitchen. At least, you assume it’s the kitchen.
You only just manage to catch a glimpse of the cook. He’s an albino. Unusual, but in and of itself not what you’re here for. Still, his hair looks weird. You aren’t sure exactly, and maybe he just had it up as a matter of health and safety regulations, but you could have sworn it moved strangely.
But you aren’t a fool, not about to make a tale out of nothing, least of all something you only saw for the fraction of a second. You look around the diner at the other people out so late for food and drink.
There is a big man sitting at the corner of the bar counter. For the space he takes up, he manages to fade into the background with surprising ease.
On a table closer to yours, a guy in a black hoodie has a laptop open. You don’t see a sign anywhere that advertises free Wi-Fi. Another oddness then. Or a case of annoying roommates that drove the hoodie-wearer to seek shelter here.
A man at the table closest to the door catches your attention. He’s looking at you, his eyes strangely piercing. He has salt and pepper hair and isn’t otherwise remarkable, but you find yourself unable to look away for a good five seconds. Only when he looks back down at his phone do you blink.
You’re pretty sure that wasn’t instant attraction but something else. It’s just not enough to make you believe that the Moonlight Diner is a gateway to a reality that should best be left in fiction. It’s also not nothing.
Triplets sharing their food and talking quietly while they swap plates and reach over each other to get to what they want sit pretty much in the center of the diner’s row of booths. Triplets are rare but not magical, and the sandy-haired three feature neither horns nor tails but still, you wonder.
The server rounds the counter to check on them. “Another round of drinks?” he asks, collecting three empty glasses on a tray.
“Two more cherry milkshakes and one of your super creamy chai lattes, please,” says one of them.
If he consulted with the others, you missed that, and you ask yourself: is this a secret triplet language thing, or do they read minds?
The server nods but never writes anything down. He returns to his spot behind the counter and gets to work on making drinks. You pull out your phone and check the screenshots that you took before the forum thread vanished.
Encounters-of-the-3rd-Rate : You know those feelings when you think someone is watching you and they are, like, on the subway? This dude, on my way home, watched me 4 sure. Watched him back. Then alla sudden, dude’s tongue comes out his mouth like his mouth is really watering, only its looong, like, loooooooong.
KnightHawk83 : That’s disgusting. You’re just kinky. That’s fine, but it’s not what we’re talking about.
PhibiFrog : Did you find out anything about the cabs?
Encounters-of-the-3rd-Rate : dude, but the toooongue!
MxEx : Ignore that one. I have footage of a cab waiting on a side street in the financial district for hours, motor running. Got the plates.
You go to the next image. They were talking about cabs for a while, and if there is one thing you aren’t willing to believe, it’s that someone secretly owns a fleet of cabs and runs an underground cab network. It sounds more like Uber than supernatural.
Down thread, LilyNRose wrote:
LilyNRose: I think the Moonlight Diner is not quite normal. I’m not saying it’s a hellmouth (although there was a fire there a while back), but the place gives me vibes. I had a dream in which I was there, and then this normal-looking man came in. He ordered tea I think. I heard a voice—that was a voice in my dream, sorry, it’s all jumbled—anyway. The man in my dream told me to leave the diner and forget all about it, but he wasn’t really saying that to me. I’m only mentioning it because a few days later, I found a sachet of stevia tablets in my purse. I know you shouldn’t, but I take them from cafés. The thing is, I had never been to the Moonlight Diner before, but the logo was on the sachet. And then I had the dream. That’s not normal, right?
You put your phone aside and reach for the collection of sweeteners. Sure enough, there’s stevia there, and the tablets are wrapped, the logo of a crescent moon and three stars adorning the sachet.
You have no idea what to make of it, but before you can reread more of the thread, the door opens, the bell chimes, and in walks a handsome, boyish-looking man with dark hair and green eyes. He takes no longer than a heartbeat, but in this time, his gaze takes in everything in the diner, including you. It makes you feel exposed for that single moment during which the green eyes connect with yours.
Before fear can really settle in, the man’s face draws into a pout, and he says, “Amoryyyyy.” His tone is petulant in the most practiced of ways, and his green eyes search the server’s as he slumps down in one of the bar chairs. “Amoryyyy, I need a chocolate milkshake, please. I’m so sad because you haven’t visited me yet.”
“Jeez, Elias,” the server says but sounds indulgent.
The man’s pout turns up a notch. If his pout were a confection, his would come with powdered sugar on top and sweet syrup oozing out the center as you bite down on it. “You didn’t even welcome me to the Moonlight Diner, Amoryyyy! You are ignoring me! Have you made a new best friend?” He points to the broad man at the other end of the counter. “Are you having juice with Ben these days?”
The broad man snorts. It’s loud for a snort, and very expressive. The guy behind his laptop stops typing and looks over to the broad guy before slowly returning his attention to the screen.
“Elias, I’m making drinks. You’ll have to wait for me to finish, but if you can do that quietly, you can have extra cream.”
The black-haired guy brightens. He’s totally overacting, but you can’t argue that he pulls it off.
“Oh, Amory! You’re the best. Thank you! Valentin never lets me have extra cream anymore these days. You know what he did? He got me a journal, and he’s forcing me to write in it!” He waves his left hand. “My poor wrist!”
“He likes juice. Maybe jam a nectarine into his mouth?” the broad guy says. His voice is a low rumble. The laptop guy looks up again.
All of a sudden, you have a sneaking suspicion that what is going on here isn’t supernatural at all, not the kind of thing you’re really looking for. You are beginning to think that all this is a front, yes, but one for kink and kinky encounters rather than supernatural goings-on.
You take stock and examine the evidence once more. There was the tongue guy who posted in the forum, and he kept coming back with similar stories. Then the other poster with something that might have been somnophilia. The only people talking seriously were the cab people, and they were basically chasing their own tails with that nonsense theory.
Here at the Moonlight, what strikes you is the looks of everyone: the guy at the door, quiet, middle-aged but face looking younger, the triplets, fit and well-dressed, two women you found not at all suspicious, one blonde, one brunette, both wearing glasses and talking on their phones, and of course the laptop guy, the broad guy, and the brat.
Laptop guy to run appointments, and the people here waiting for something or using this place for…a shopping window maybe? For sex work, because if you are being honest with yourself, it makes more sense than what you came here to find.
Your conclusion settling in your mind, you would leave if it weren’t for your order. After he serves the drinks to the triplets, the server brings you a soup in a hollowed-out pumpkin. The pumpkin has the Moonlight’s logo seared on it with a kitchen torch and sits on a bed of extra croutons. The smell makes your mouth water, spices and good olive oil, roasted bread and well-seasoned soup.
“Enjoy,” the server says.
Before he can quite walk off, you ask him to make you one of the creamy chai teas too, if only for the satisfaction of watching the black-haired brat at the counter pout some more.
Meanwhile, you enjoy your food. It’s amazing, as amazing as no soup you ever had, creamy and rich, yet the pumpkin flavor isn’t hidden by other ingredients. You’d come here just for this soup, you realize when you are half finished after only a few minutes. By that time, the server has made the brat a milkshake that looks like vanilla. You could’ve sworn you heard him ask for chocolate.
When your soup is done and your tea has arrived, the door to the Moonlight opens again. A goth dude walks in, wearing eyeliner and a coat, black clothes only. Except he isn’t a real Goth. He doesn’t draw attention in the same way, and he feels less approachable, more like the Goth veneer is a disguise to hide some real darkness.
It’s just a feeling, just your gut telling you this, and if your theory is correct, this might be the person keeping this sexy operation safe.
And you want no trouble with that at all, because all sex workers should be safe.
You simply enjoy the remainder of your food and try to not watch as the server greets the black-clad enforcer. They’re an odd pair, the friendly, smiling server—Amory—blushing as he pours coffee and serves cake to that guy.
It reminds you of silly fairy tales you don’t read anymore, a princess meeting a dark prince who appears just in time to save her, but you don’t want to judge. That’s not what you came here for, no.
You came here to find out what happened to you.
You had an accident when you were in your teens—a frozen lake not frozen enough to carry you, combined with youthful stupidity. You nearly drowned, but someone pulled you out. You remember bits and pieces of it, you remember someone saying, Don’t be stupid. Don’t die. Dying isn’t all it’s made out to be.
You don’t remember a voice. You remember preciously little of that day, but an ambulance was called, and you didn’t die. Everyone told you you should have. When you were back on your feet, you tried finding out who’d saved you, but by everyone’s account, you were on the shore, feet away from the lake when the ambulance arrived, and there was no one else there with you. No one to call the ambulance, but someone did call it for you.
They said you had to have made it out of the lake yourself and some passer-by must have seen you, called for help. That’s bullshit. You remember the cold water, the weight of your clothes, the panic and fatigue. You know you didn’t save yourself, couldn’t have.
You have been looking for answers ever since then, but the answers that you want aren’t here. At least, you got an amazing pumpkin soup out of it.
You leave money on the table and head toward the door.
“Have a nice evening, and see you soon,” the nice server tells you.
He is leaning on the enforcer guy’s table, and the enforcer is casting you a dirty look.
You shrug and walk away, the door chime fading as the door closes behind you and you walk into the night. If you hurry, you can still catch the subway and be home before three, maybe check the forum again. They probably shut the thread down because it got to be too much about sex, but you have no doubt the cab crowd will have built another thread.
Then again, it might be more fun to watch the tongue guy annoy other posters, at least for an hour or so.
You smile as you head home. You’ll come back, if only for the special of the day. You will have to find the key to the mystery of being alive when you shouldn’t be elsewhere, but for tonight, you are okay with that.