#dczed:start

the night shift was always eventful; customers that frequented the diner past the curfew of any sleep-abiding citizens had a tale to tell or a secret up their sleeve. the ufo hunters were always her favourites, tinfoil hats and tweed blazers, parked out front in a beaten up campervan, face-down in a bowl of spaghetti. midnight had long-since chimed, though the sun was yet to rise, a dull indigo on the skyline divided only by the neon bulbs of dorothy’s diner. “so what you’re saying is, if by some cruel miracle marlon brando, clint eastwood and john travolta walked through that door, you wouldn’t feel anything in the pit of your stomach? I don’t believe it for a second, doll.” a bubble of gum, blue velvet, popped against her lips, the pulled cerulean of her uniform almost matching the bubblegum’s hue, as the entrance bell ended her fantasy, eyes snapping towards a solitary newcomer among the hubbub of night owls. “little late for a midnight snack, sugar. it’s bordering on three,” greta began, leaning against the counter, her fingers making a grasp for the notebook in her apron pocket. “you had a hot date, or just takin' a break from the wheel for some fries and a coke?”

               curls tied back and dress flowing, arms tightly clutching a package, margo THRIVES  in the summer sunshine as she practically skips down the path. the faintest trail of freckles are starting to form on the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks, down the lengths of her arms and speckled along her thighs that peak out from beneath the floral dress as it swings around her. it’s a beautiful day, and she lifts her chin to let the rays embrace her face for a few seconds -- a few seconds too long, apparently, as she’s suddenly knocked backwards. the parcel drops from her hands as she stumbles, trying to find her feet again like a startled deer. “oh!” she exclaims as she realises what she’s done, blinking with heavy lashes at the most certainly smashed parcel on the floor. she raises her gaze to the person in front of her, her cheeks flushed -- “gosh, i’m so sorry, i wasn’t looking.” she squeaks, “are you okay?” 

it didn’t matter how hard or how many times she scrubbed the back corner booth, the tabletop always remained inexplicably sticky. penina sighed, throwing the rag she had been using onto the table in defeat. the weather was heavy with an unforgiving humidity. condensation ran slowly down the walls despite the fact that the windows were thrown open in a desperate attempt to catch even the slightest breeze. the collar of her faded yellow shirt stuck to the back of her neck, perspiration causing tendrils of her hair to cling to her cheeks, the rest scraped back into a hasty ponytail. god, she hated the summer. the ding of the bell signalling the entrance of a customer caused her to sigh. “ take a seat, and i’ll get you a menu, “ she called, the well-rehearsed line tumbling from her mouth almost as a reflex action.