Nighthawks, But It’s A Tuesday Afternoon by Eve Dineva

Creamy-butter amber spills through

the thick window blinds to drip inside

in heavy beads, the colour of summer daffodils.

It leaves wet, burnt-orange traces on the black tiled floor

as it continues its invasion of the big room.

The liquid sunlight evaporates at the touch

with the dark clover surface of a small wooden table

neatly tucked in the shadowy corner of an empty diner

on 52th Street.

Illumination scatters shaping a dancing crescendo

of a thousand dusty particles

and they move gracefully under the lulling sounds of the

 jukebox, playing a forever- since forgotten melody of a pop- song

somewhere from the 90-ies.

All that while the moving hands of the clock hanging

 on the wall opposite the bar

are strumming with their long nails through the face of time

to leave the dial with the invisible scars of wasted minutes passing

and eventually lost.

The seat opposite mine remains vacant.

I cast my eyes down and pin them

to the melting cream of my large vanilla shake.

 I watch the heavy red cherry sinking slowly in,

disappearing in the foamy embrace of my second drink.

I plunge the cloudy -silver spoon into the glass and keep on counting.

You said I was overly childish for always

getting the sweetest possible from the menu.

I thought I was childish for always

asking you out and hoping you might come this time.

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Eve Dineva is a bi-lingual author of short stories and poems. Her works appear in Cha : Literary Journal and Poetic Sun. She's currently working on her second novel, which is going to be traditionally published under a pen name.