Susannah woke up when the bell above her door tinkled. It was a pavlovian reflex, ironed into her brain after twenty odd years of customer service. It happened many times every day, and some nights in her darkest dreams, hearing this bell. She snapped upright in almost military attention, subtly wiping eye crust onto her apron.

She then took stock of her surroundings. She had been bent over the counter, asleep. She remembered the god. The chair it was sitting in was now vacated, and the table cleared.

She looked to the front door. The windows beside it were dark. It had to be shortly into early morning.

There was a man standing just on the threshold. He was pale, but not to an extreme. There was some little color in his cheeks and mouth. His hair was bleached at the ends in a look that was almost trashy, but was skillfully blended in the rest of his black roots, and so managed to pull off expensive instead.

His eyes were bright blue, and searching the interior of her café. They flicked from one surface to another, judging.

He was wearing a suit that was unclearly dark gray or black, a white undershirt, and a blood red tie. He wore matching slacks and shined, fancy looking footwear. He had a bit of pudge to his belly, but nothing to get gossipy about.

His eyes finished their inspection by settling on her.

“Hello,” he said with a smile. His teeth were very white. Lines around his mouth became apparent. Susannah looked closer, past the dye job, and noticed a receding hairline. The man was likely in his forties.

“Hello,” Susannah replied. It took her a second to rattle her usual script from her still sleep fogged mind. “Welcome to Soul Coffee Café. Uh, we’re closed right now, long day, I was just getting ready to clean everything up.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

He continued smiling and stepped inside. “Are you the owner, miss…?”

“Susannah. Yes, I am. And you are?”

The man continued to approach. She curled a hand under the counter, and found her parting gift from Swamptown. It would ruin her interior decorating, sure, but her own blood spilled over the floor could do that too.

“I am Slaly BonJaeveson III.5.” He said this in a grandiose fashion, like the name should mean something to her. It did, but it took a moment. “And I am-”

“My landlord. Yeah, your name was on the paperwork. Not to be rude, sorry, I’m tired.” A belated flare of panic shot down her spine. What was he looking for, earlier? “If you don't mind saying, why are you here?”

“Is it not obvious?”

No, Susannah conveyed with her eyebrows, it was not.

“Termination of your lease.”

Susannah was shocked into loud blustering. “I beg your, I mean, what the– but! Why?”

“Do you not want a termination?”

“No! No, I do not, I'm happy here, thank you.”

He tipped his head to the side, rather like a curious bat. “Did it not happen?”

Susannah felt wildly out of depth. This was, unfortunately, becoming a usual feeling. “How do you mean?”

“The thing that sends people running. They never stay, after Tuesdays’.”

Susannah stared at him, mind going into overdrive. “You mean, the god showing up is a regular thing?” And then her pattern recognition skills caught up. “A thing that will keep happening?” On Tuesdays no less? Tuesdays were, at most, considered a follow up of Monday, the day before Wednesdays, were the real special things happened.

“Why, yes.” For a moment her landlord looked uncomfortable. He pulled a handkerchief that was color matched to his tie from a nearly invisible pocket, and ducked his mouth against it for no discernible reason. “I have become rather against renters these days. Too much paperwork when they flee. I was surprised when you took the lease.” He pulled the handkerchief away and tucked it it back into the pocket.

Ah, yes. “The real estate agent was a bit… weird.”

Susannah thought back on this brief chapter of her life. It hadn't seemed important after the fact.