The diner is awash with businessmen waiting for their evening coffee, oversized families trailing handfuls of screaming children, grouchy old men and their wives, all pushing and shoving, scrambling for a table before the restaurant fills to the point of bursting. Waiters and waitresses rush past me like whirling tops spun out of control, trying to balance large trays brimming with pancakes, hamburgers, and sizzling bacon while maneuvering through the maze of red plastic booths and wooden tables littered about the crowded room.

I stand there, my wash rag in hand, wiping the sticky mess of syrup and grease stains with murky water, trying to clean the table for the next ungrateful customer. It feels as though I do nothing but clean up other people's messes. At home I clean for my husband, at the diner I clean for strangers. In either case, the job is endless. Nothing ever stays clean. Things just remain in a perpetual state of grime and I assume the job of the tireless maid, always ready to do other's dirty work.

The smell of the cleaning solution mixed with the rancid grease from the kitchen makes me sick to my stomach and the dizzying blur of colors and smells that scurry by don't help one bit. I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to ignore the splitting headache that has been plaguing my brain since I woke up.

The pain in my head is only one of the souvenirs from my fight last night with Joe. Instinctively I touch my face to hide the bluish purple lump I know is showing under the caking makeup I used to conceal it.

He had been drinking last night. I knew it as soon as I walked thorough the door. The whole apartment stank of stale gin and vomit. There was Joe sprawled on the couch in front of the blaring TV screen amidst an oasis of glittering glass beer bottles, dead to the world. I tried so hard not to wake him. I never want to wake him when he's like that. I crept into the apartment quietly being ever so careful not to make a sound. That's when I tripped, and as I fell let go of the front door, which slammed shut with a deafening metal clang.

"Where have you been?" he asked. His speech was slow and slurred together, oozing out of his flaccid mouth. I was too terrified to answer him. I just stood there frozen feet firmly planted in the musty gray rug. He slowly heaved his bulk to a sitting position until he was staring straight at me. "Where the hell have you been!"

" I.....I..." I stammered, unable to respond. I should have run. I should have torn right out of that apartment. I knew what was coming next. But I just stood there. He walked over to me and grabbed both my wrists in his claw-like hands.

"You answer me when I talk to you!"

"Joe, please," I pleaded, "you're hurting me."

He slapped me hard across the face and I stumbled, leaning against the wall and sinking

"Get up!" he yelled. I couldn't. I didn't want to.

"I said get the fuck up!" Then he started to kick me and I curled up into a little ball crying, begging him to stop. He didn't care. He just kept on screaming and kicking. My brain shut off like it always does. I am helpless to stop him so I do my best to send my mind away from the pain. It is the only part of me that seems capable of escape.

 After awhile he got tired of course, the effects of the alcohol finally overpowering his surge of energetic rage. I watched in relief as he stumbled off to the bedroom slamming the door behind him, leaving me there, in a broken heap.

He's not always like that though. Joe can be so sweet. When we were first married we used to take long walks together in the park. We would talk for hours, delving into the depths of each other's souls. Our minds would meld together until we could practically read each other's minds. Individual thoughts melting into one pure emotion in a moment of blissful realization. We would just walk through the damp night air, talking until we saw the sun start to rise, lighting sky on fire. I try to remember moments like that during the worst of it. The good times, before Joe starting drinking.

I notice the strange man is here again tonight, his black overcoat turned up, hiding most of his features. All I can see of his face are the shining black eyes that glitter with some sort of internal spark. It seems to emanate from his very soul. He always sits in the same booth, the one in the corner by the window. Amidst the bustle and commotion of the diner, there is an air of calm about him, as if his presence brings with it some sort of aura of tranquility. I don't think he ever eats anything. Even though he orders coffee, it always sits there untouched as he gazes, unmoving, out the window.

As sad as it may be, this stranger is the only piece of intrigue in my dish water life. Who could he possibly be? I have been asking myself this question ever since he began coming here a few months ago. Something about him reminds me of Joe. The Joe I knew before alcohol possessed his soul. The black eyes have the same intense expression. They are determined, as if no obstacle could possibly be too hard to overcome. I covet this dark stranger as an icon of hope. The only hope left in my desolate existence. My eyes are glued to his hallowed figure.

Suddenly, he turns around and looks me straight in the face, cutting through the crowd of people. His face is white, inhuman and haunting. The black eyes seem to penetrate mine and I feel naked under his gaze. I look away realizing how rude I must have seemed just staring at him. I just couldn't help it. His shrouded presence is so intriguing to me, I don't know why. He just seems so out of place here in this dump, like a king sitting in the gutter surrounded by grime and feces. 

 I go into the kitchen to empty my tray of soiled dishes, trying to avoid walking too near the man in the corner booth and by the time I come back out, he has already left. I'm relieved. I'd hate to have to confront those eyes again.

The rest of the night goes on fairly uneventfully. I wash table after table until the tedium kicks in and my movements become mechanical. My mind drifts from the task at hand while my body continues to work away. I dream of the man in the corner. I dream that my whole life is some sort of evil spell that some wicked sorcerer cast over me and that the man in black is my dark avenger, come to liberate me from the world I live in. The world I despise.

When I finish cleaning and locking up I take the hour drive back to my dilapidated apartment in the city. I used to tell myself that the apartment was only going to be a temporary home. Once Joe got a better job I figured I could quit the diner and we could buy a small house out in the suburbs. I figured we would only be in that apartment for a year at the most. That was ten years ago. Driving up to the tower of cinderblock rooms stacked one on top of another still fills me with a sense of disappointment. But that's nothing new. Every aspect of my life since I married Joe has been marked by one disappointment after another.

The drive home seems endless today, maybe because I don't really want to go home. I don't think I can face Joe tonight. When I left this morning he was still asleep, but tonight...well, I don't know what he'll be like tonight.

Reality is too painful for such a long, lonely drive. I prefer to slip into the realm of fantasy. I will imagine that I am going home to my dark stranger. He would never hurt me the way Joe does. With him I will live happily for the rest of my life. We will have a house in the suburbs with two kids and a dog. My life will be a never-ending dream, filled with love. The mysterious man in black will hold the keys to a beautiful future where I can be happy.

Just two more miles to go and I will be home but I can barely see the road in front of me now. My headache has evolved to a fullblown migraine and I can't concentrate. I feel dizzy, almost drunk. Cars zoom past at record speeds, bright red and yellow lights dancing across a sea of gray cement.

Then suddenly I see him, the man in black, my heroic stranger. He is standing right there, in the middle of the highway. He has come to save me. His graceful figure is illuminated, no longer hidden, glowing in the bright white glow of the headlights. I swerve desperately towards him, towards the white light, towards my savior.

Peace fills my soul. My headache has disappeared. All pain has vanished, obliterated by the man in black. The loud screech of the brakes the desperate horns honking seem distant. They evolve into a beautiful symphony and their original cacophonous form is forgotten. There is blood, crushed metal, screaming, confusion, but also beauty. I have transcended the grotesque figure trapped in the mangled car. The man in black takes my hand. And together we walk away from the mess. A mess I will never have to clean. I will never clean anyone's mess ever again. My prayers have been answered. I am saved.