“Everywhere I go,” the man said, staring through a window at the darkness pressing in against the glass, “there are always puddles of water beneath my feet. I think it’s supposed to mean something, but I don’t know what.”

To Jacob, sitting at the counter next to the man, the diner seemed to be too harshly lit, as if every object within had been rendered with almost painful intensity. He glanced at the man sitting on the next seat and sighed. One of those, he thought. Just my luck.

“It used to bother me,” the man said. “I thought people would treat me like I was a freak or a weirdo or something. You know, because of the puddles. But no-one ever seems to notice.”

Jacob signaled for a waitress and ordered a coffee. She was a distracted looking woman with a nice smile when she allowed it to flicker across her face. She wore a name badge with ‘Beth’ written on it, over the faded lettering of ‘Juanita,’ which had been the name originally stenciled onto the plastic. She hurried off to pour the coffee, and Jacob wondered who Juanita had been, where she had gone.

“Then it started bothering me that people don’t notice. You’d think that would be something people would pick up on, a man who has puddles beneath his feet everywhere he goes. For some reason it was worse that no-one noticed.”

Beth placed the cup in front of Jacob, and he thanked her. On a whim, he asked her who Juanita had been. She appeared momentarily confused, and then, “Oh, you mean the name on my badge?” She swiveled it around, twisting the fabric on her blouse into a knot, and tucked her chin down to read it. “I honestly don’t know. I never met her. I think she went away.”

Jacob thanked her again and she moved off to serve another customer.

“I thought about asking people about it. You know, if they ever noticed the puddles. And then I got scared that if I did, they’d start noticing them all the time, and that would be worst of all.”

Jacob stared into the slightly oily surface of the coffee, catching a distorted vision of the interior of the diner in its reflection. He could hear the man tapping his feet nervously against the footrest of his seat, making soft, wet squelching noises with his shoes. On the floor below, a puddle of water had gathered.

“I think it’s supposed to mean something,” the man said, staring out at the darkness, “but I don’t know what.”

Jacob took a sip of coffee; it was too bitter and too hot but he drank it anyway. He briefly considered telling the man that the puddles had something to do with his final moments, with the way his life had ended. Maybe he had slipped on some tiles, or been electrocuted, or perhaps even drowned – something to do with water.

But then, he thought to himself, what’s the point? The dead, they never listen.

“Excuse me, Miss,” he said on a whim as the waitress walked by. “I was wondering who Juanita was?”

“Oh,” said the waitress, momentarily confused, “you mean the name on my badge? I honestly don’t know. I never met her. I think she went away.”

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