Title: 24 Hour Diner
Author: Joani
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: If I owned them, I wouldn't be eating in diners like these. On
the other hand, they make great story fodder.
***
She doesn't go for the food.
It's the local 24 hour diner where she stops in, late at night when she's not quite ready to go home and face the music.
The food isn't great, and the service is worse, but it's open, and it's warm, and it's a far cry better than standing in the rain.
She doesn't measure the amount of sugar that goes into the coffee there. She just pours until it feels right. Half the time, she has to filch those little creamers from other tables, and even then, it's a bit of a game of Guess the Fresh Creamer.
She usually doesn't bother to look at the menu either, barely knows if she's ordering cream of cauliflower soup or the chicken fajitas.
The waitress just kinda shows up at her table when she feels like it. Doesn't say anything as the coffee pours - bitter brown stuff that's most likely been on the heater all day.
The waitress leaves and she's left, surrounded by the chatter of other patrons. Some kids to her left have their laptop open and are probably looking at porn or some hack site. Another guy with orange hair stirs his coffee loudly, the spoon clinking on the ceramic in a steady beat.
She stares off into the distance, blindly seeking nothing on the far brick wall. The coffee mug makes its way to her lips every so often, and she's barely aware of it.
When the greek salad comes, it's without ceremony. The veggies are warm and a bit soft, and she hardly gets a nod as she mutters a soft 'thanks'.
No, it's not the food she comes for.
It's because this is the only place no one expects her to be anyone. Not supercop, not supermom.
Here, she's not even Faith, much less Yokas.
Here, she's just a nameless customer, in a bad restaurant, on the side of a dirty street at midnight.
And sometimes, that's just what she wants.
***
She doesn't go for the food.
It's the local 24 hour diner where she stops in, late at night when she's not quite ready to go home and face the music.
The food isn't great, and the service is worse, but it's open, and it's warm, and it's a far cry better than standing in the rain.
She doesn't measure the amount of sugar that goes into the coffee there. She just pours until it feels right. Half the time, she has to filch those little creamers from other tables, and even then, it's a bit of a game of Guess the Fresh Creamer.
She usually doesn't bother to look at the menu either, barely knows if she's ordering cream of cauliflower soup or the chicken fajitas.
The waitress just kinda shows up at her table when she feels like it. Doesn't say anything as the coffee pours - bitter brown stuff that's most likely been on the heater all day.
The waitress leaves and she's left, surrounded by the chatter of other patrons. Some kids to her left have their laptop open and are probably looking at porn or some hack site. Another guy with orange hair stirs his coffee loudly, the spoon clinking on the ceramic in a steady beat.
She stares off into the distance, blindly seeking nothing on the far brick wall. The coffee mug makes its way to her lips every so often, and she's barely aware of it.
When the greek salad comes, it's without ceremony. The veggies are warm and a bit soft, and she hardly gets a nod as she mutters a soft 'thanks'.
No, it's not the food she comes for.
It's because this is the only place no one expects her to be anyone. Not supercop, not supermom.
Here, she's not even Faith, much less Yokas.
Here, she's just a nameless customer, in a bad restaurant, on the side of a dirty street at midnight.
And sometimes, that's just what she wants.