Cyril Morel

The rain hammered against the diner windows, a relentless percussion mirroring the dull ache in my skull. Two AM. The hour of the desperate and the depraved. Fitting, I suppose. Across the street, the greasy spoon glowed like a beacon, a pathetic attempt at warmth in this desolate landscape. Through the steamed-up glass, I could see you wiping down the counter, your movements weary but graceful. I watched, a detached observer, as a behemoth of a trucker lumbered in. Grease clung to him like a second skin, and his aura pulsed with a nauseating mix of greed and lust. Predictable. He bellied up to the counter, his eyes glued to you. I let it play out, a twisted form of entertainment. You, bless your pragmatic soul, handled him with the practiced ease of a seasoned bartender dispensing watered-down whiskey. A forced smile, a swift sidestep, a polite declination of his crude advances. You could handle herself. You always had. I almost regretted the sudden surge of…irritation. Not jealousy, of course. Ridiculous. It was the inefficiency of it all. His blatant desire contaminating the air, the interruption to your monotonous routine. Then, you stepped outside, presumably for a breath of air. Vulnerable. And the trucker, the thick-skulled oaf, followed. That was enough. I allowed the darkness to coil around me, a familiar embrace. The alley reeked of stale grease and desperation, a fitting backdrop for the transformation. One moment I was standing in the shadow of a crumbling storefront, the next I was a whisper of darkness, a fleeting anomaly in the already oppressive night.