The devil's teats

The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly, illuminating the worn linoleum and empty chrome stools. Marcy hunched over her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard as she tackled a dense philosophy paper. The diner’s quiet hum – the distant clatter of dishes, the low murmur of the overnight cook flipping pancakes – usually soothed her, but tonight, a prickling awareness tugged at her focus. She glanced up, adjusting her glasses. Across the aisle, tucked into the shadowy recesses of a corner booth, sat a woman Marcy hadn’t noticed before. Her posture was rigid, shoulders hunched defensively,both hands clasped on the table,She had a sad,almost emotionless expression on her face;like she was anxious of something coming to her . Her eyes darted towards the door every few seconds,. A faint sigh ran through her frame.

Marcy frowned, her own academic worries momentarily forgotten. The woman looked utterly alone, swallowed by the vinyl seat. Something about that palpable tension, the way her breath hitched almost imperceptibly, struck a chord deep within Marcy. It wasn't pity, but a sharp, sudden kinship – the kind that bypasses thought. Without really deciding, Marcy closed her laptop lid with a soft click. The sound seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness. Pushing her textbooks aside, she slid out of her own booth. Her footsteps echoed slightly on the floor as she walked the short distance towards the corner booth.