The exterior of House of Cluck gave no hint to its dire interior. The smell of dank mop water and ammonia assaulted the couple on entering, and the curtains were so thick with dust no sunlight could conceivably penetrate them. Michael’s disappointment was immediate, but Emma, not to be dimmed so easily, brightly ordered the pancake breakfast; her companion rallied with an order of bacon and eggs.

A display of neglected postcards was next to the counter. The yellowed floor around its base indicated it had not been moved in awhile, although more telling to the painter was how the striped, sun-faded cards lined up perfectly with the window blinds. A newspaper dispenser stood along side this relic. Its banner, by comparison, was only a week old:

FORGOTTEN TIME CAPSULE DISCOVERED AT BUILDING SITE. MAYOR PLANS OPENING.

The pair was served their food on trays and headed off to the only clean-looking table on the premises. After sitting down, Emma (now in full muse mode) took on calculating charm as she struggled to get her syrup out of its little plastic container. “You know, Michael,” she began, “you’re more adventurous than you think in bringing me here.”

Michael held up his pathetically bent fork. “There’s more to college towns than ergonomically designed silverware and frou-frou tofu, Miss Breton. Eating with me is like roughing it.” The ailing utensil was then dunked in his hot coffee and swished around.

She threw him a curious smile.

He justified his action. “Part of roughing it is sterilizing you eating implements.”

Emma snickered, dropping a glob of syrup on her dress. She dabbed her napkin in ice water to wipe it away. “Better my dress than my hips,” was her brittle observation.

The painter looked at her severely. “Why do you say things like that?”

She smirked. “Because it’s the only way to wrangle a compliment out of you.”

Michael, blushing, glanced around at the unfortunate environs.

Halloween festoons of orange and black construction paper hung from the ceiling, yet their presence did little to lighten the pallor of the place. A jukebox was spotted back in a corner, and desiring a different mood the man got up to check it out. After fumbling for a few coins, he hastily inserted them before getting the lay of the machine; nothing happened. He stood meditating over the buttons for a moment or two, but following another failed attempt with more coins he decided not to fuss any further with it. He strolled back over to the table dismissively, wishing only to spare his chinked masculinity. “It didn’t have any Brahms or Schubert, anyway.”

Emma leapt up and went over to the jukebox without a syllable. Pushing up on her toes, she smashed a button with swaggering youth; How High the Moon by Les Paul and Mary Ford started up. She twinkled back to the table where her companion was obliged to comment.

“I’m no good with electrical things,” he grumbled.

The photographer wielded her knife, affectedly. “Are you one of those people whose VCR clock is always flashing twelve because you don’t know how to program it?”

“That more accurately describes my bedroom clock since it fell in the floor.”

“Why don’t you buy a new one?”

He shrugged. “I don’t have much patience with programming things.”

“Are you a Luddite?”

“More like a technophobe.” He explained, “The answering machine part of my phone hasn’t been operational for years, but I can’t see replacing it with some digital contraption with too many buttons.”

“But you need a working phone.”

“The rest of my phone works fine.”

“When was the last time it ringed?”

“In Chicago. A month ago.”

“And you’ve had no calls since?”

He thought on it. “I think maybe I turned off the ringer so I could sleep.”

She was struck by his answer. “Are you so cut off from the world?”

It was sobering to hear it come from another mouth. He answered truthfully, “I never intended to be.”

Emma smiled at his simple confession. “Then meeting me is your first step to rejoining the human race.”

A lull settled over the table. The painter, for all his shyness, was serious in his stares of attraction, and only averted his gaze when the stare was returned. Most of the time he could not distinguish between looks that denoted reciprocation of interest and those intended to rebuff him, so always played dumb in demurring. Here, too, he blinked. His eyes dropped to the tabletop where Emma’s finger was grazing his knuckle.

Just then, an ancient-looking, darkly attired man staggered through the front door; Emma and Michael were pulled out of their interlude to do double takes. The fellow was wearing a sea captain’s hat and coat, both of which were covered with vegetation, possibly seaweed; the garland lent an air of decay to his arresting appearance. His boney hands were stained purplish-black, either from dye or blood pooling under his skin, and his dingy white shirt, with fungus or other stains around the collar and cuffs, could have been used for a forensic Rorschach’s test. What was most curious about him—even spooky—was he had the word, BLIND, written on his forehead. The letters were scrawled haphazardly in felt-tip maker and blurred from moisture. He ordered a cup of coffee from the counter and came to sit near the couple. The smell of mildew was strong, and it was doubtful there would be any safe distance from it in the restaurant.

The decrepit man then began to drink his coffee in an unusual manner; Michael picked up on the pattern. First he would raise the cup to his mouth six times without drinking, turning to face the pair with an automaton’s blank grin each time. On the seventh pass, he slurped the beverage loudly, whereupon the routine was repeated. This pantomime went on for about a half an hour, and never varied. When at last the man rose to leave, he smiled again at his captive audience, although it was more like looking past them. Once the man was safely off the premises, an unhinged Emma pushed away her plate of food.

“That was him,” she grumbled. “The guy on the road.”

The two got up to leave a few minutes later, and on walking close by stranger’s table, Michael looked down to see where the fellow had jotted some numbers down on a napkin:

Near misses: .142857, .285714, .428571, .571428, .714285, .857142. And on the Seventh Day: .999999

On reemerging outside, the couple found a strong wind had blown up in their absence. It was racking the few cirrus clouds high in the blustery blue and teasing them out like threads of cotton. Michael circled to the passenger side of the car to unlock the door, only then spotting the sea captain standing out next to the highway. Another gust of wind kicked up and almost knocked Emma off balance; the stiff-looking man, however, showed no effects of it. Eager to leave, the couple got in the vehicle and pulled off the lot close to where the captain was planted like a weathervane. In reaction, he turned to face in the direction they were heading. The driver glanced up in his rearview mirror to see the gaunt man grinning from ear to ear. His corpse-like expression was so exaggerated he appeared to have no eyelids.

Michael gulped. “What th…?”

Emma peeked back in response, but quickly regretted it. She reached out and grabbed the dashboard, as if a control panel. “Drive faster, Michael!”

The painter was more intrigued than frightened. “I don’t think he’s going to chase us. I doubt the caffeine would limber him up that much.”

Emma refused to look back again. “It must be a Halloween prank. Don’t you think?”

The driver nodded in agreement, though a part of him wondered if his nightmares were coming to look for him in the light of day.