Coffee and Death

The little bell chimed as the door opened, another pair of soaked boots finding its way out of the rainy city streets and into the balmy refuge of the "Strawberries & Cream" café. The new arrival was instantly greeted by the warm lights and the permeating aroma of coffee, accompanied by the soothing jazz music on the speakers. Usually, the ambience like this would put her at ease, but she wasn't here to rest.

The newcomer took her hood off and took a quick, but careful look around. At the far end of the café, a lone man was reading a newspaper. Although his back was turned to the door and she couldn't see his face, the woman instantly recognized him. Leaving her coat on, she made her way to his table and sat down without a word. A half-empty cup of coffee and a plate littered with crumbs rested on it.

"Terrible weather, isn't it?" The man said with utmost calm, his face hidden behind the newspaper. "They say the rain is going to get even heavier next week... Ah, but you're not here to talk weather with an old geezer now, are you?"

He put the newspaper aside, revealing his weary, wrinkled face, and took a sip of his coffee as he looked at the woman in front of him. His eyes were met with the stare of the void as a pair of dark-lens round sunglasses hid the eyes of the woman entirely. Her skin was of a fair tone, with freckles and wrinkles covering a good part of her face, and her long red hair fell freely on her shoulders.

He sighed. "And here I thought they've caught you. Well, if you are here, then I guess that you know who I am. Though I can't help but notice that in person you look way different than on your mugshot."

"People change."

"We both know they don't, especially people like us."

"I have nothing in common with you."

"Oh don't bullshit me. I am old but I am sure as hell not senile."

"You're a–"

"Can I get you anything, Miss, Mister?" A waitress stood by the table with a polite smile on her lips. The worried look in her eyes, though, betrayed the fact that she overheard some of their conversation.

"Oh, could I get another cup of coffee, please?" The man replied with the deceiving warmth in his voice.

"Glass of water. With ice." The woman said , not taking her eyes off the man in front of her.

The waitress nodded, scribbled something on her notepad, took the empty cup and plate and scurried away.

"Oh, you should've asked for their strawberry pie. It's the best thing they've got here."

"Some other time."

"Suit yourself. Anyways, what were we talking about? Ah, yes, our differences. You see, I think you're full of shit."

The man leaned in and continued in lowered voice, the warmth in his voice replaced by something cold and sinister.

"You and I are the same. No matter how hard you try to deny it or how many excuses you come up with, you're a cold-blooded killer, the same as I."

"You're a rapist and a murderer. I am nothing like you."

"Sure," he scoffed, "you think killing people like me makes you better? You think it doesn't count, doesn't change you? Let me give you some advice, lady."

"Your coffee, Mister..." The waitress returned and placed a new cup of coffee on the table. "...and your water, Miss." She placed a glass of water in front of the woman and winked at her. The man didn't seem to notice that.

"Thank you, my dear." The man replied, his voice full of warmth and care again.

"Thanks." The woman nodded.

"Enjoy!" The waitress said with a smile and left the two to their conversation. Once she was gone, the man continued.

"Every time you kill somebody," he took a careful sip of his still hot coffee, "their face gets ingrained in your memory. Every time you wake, eat, work, fuck, read the news, watch TV, stand in the commute, spend time with your loved ones, your kids, your friends, and so on and so on – their faces are right there, in front of you, looking at you with that dread in their eyes. They plead, cry, and scream right into your ears, no matter how hard you try to push them back."

"You're not listening to me, old man. I'm killing monsters, not people. Nothing you say will save you from what's coming to you."

The man chuckled and took another sip of the coffee, looking at the woman in front of him with an amused glint in his eyes. "The youth, always hasty with their assumptions. I'm not telling you this to save myself – I always knew that, sooner or later, someone's bound to cut me down. I'm telling you this to stop you from making the same mistake I did. I'm trying to save you from yourself.

"Hide your eyes all you want but I can still see into your soul, into who you really are, not who you pretend to be. So tell me, detective, do you really want to go down this path? Don't you remember how it turned out for her?"

For a moment, a frown appeared on the woman's face, but she shook it off almost immediately. Then, she got up, approached the man, put her hand on his shoulder and whispered into his ear.

"I'm already walking this path. Enjoy your coffee."

She patted the man on the shoulder and made her way to the café's front desk. She reached into her coat's inner pocket, took out a 100 dollar note from her wallet and put it in the tip jar. Behind the desk stood the same waitress who was serving their table, smiling politely. The woman returned the smile before turning to leave the café.

As the little bell chimed, the man at the far end of the café began coughing.