Sisyphus’s Rock
By J. L. Young

Raindrops clung to the restaurant window. The sound of coffee being poured into a young woman’s cup doesn’t draw her attention. The yellowed light across the street fought against the churning fog. Her hands cupped around the ceramic to absorb any heat that filtered through it. She withdrew her gaze to take a sip.

The explosive clank of the door being aggressively opened drew her attention. A man with a shotgun wearing a balaclava stormed in. He threw a wadded-up grocery bag at the hostess and yelled, “Open the register and put all the bills in the bag!”

With a cold demeanor, the young woman asked, “Isn’t that balaclava itchy?”

He swung the shotgun around toward her. She looked out the window while taking a sip of her coffee. Taken aback by her nonchalance, he said, “What the hell? Can’t you see I got a gun?”

“Uh-huh,” she affirmed into her cup as she took another mouthful and swallowed. “S&W 916. Sisyphus’s rock. A fine choice,” her sarcasm was applied liberally.

“Get up. Get over here!”

“Sure,” she slid out from the booth and stood where he gestured.

He pressed the barrel against the young woman’s chest and looked at the hostess, “There can’t be that much money. What’s taking so long?”

The young woman grabbed the barrel with both hands, slammed the butt against his chest, and yanked it free of his grip. His bloodshot eyes opened wide as she swung the shotgun baseball-style connecting with his cheek. He fell as a shell ejected from the receiver and danced on the floor beside him.

She looked down at the man lying unconscious against a self-serve ice cream freezer and pulled the balaclava from his head. “There, isn’t that better?” A phone had fallen from his pocket during the pummeling. The young woman quipped, “Ah, a mobile device. Fancy that.” She retrieved it and activated it.

The corner of her lip raised slightly, “No security. Does your idiocy have no end?” She tapped the phone four times and brought it to her ear, “Hi, I’d like to report an attempted armed robbery at the Star Diner on fifth and Star.” She hung up, wiped the screen with her sleeve, and held it at arm’s length, and dropped it. Then she wiped the shotgun.

The young woman turned to the hostess, produced a couple of dollars, and put them on the counter beside the register before walking out and disappearing in the dense fog.