attempting to pander to the public for the nth (and, hopefully, the last) time. i'd be happy to offer anything: a low-rated movie to watch, a meal to eat, a seat at our supper club, or even plant-starts in exchange for good company. just leave a trace, and i might come running.
scoffs, "you know well enough i can't close early." optics skim the same sentence over and over again; pretend reading has never been one of quincy's strongest suit. "i always feel bad reading these. feels too intimate."
exhaling a sigh, palms frantically dart out to wipe the gunk onto their crisp apron, "arun." of course quincy would forget something so trivial as this. "shit, my bad. service was a total bust."
they approached the counter and slides the papers across the surface between them,
〈 you need to close earlier than this, people are awful these days 〉
it was a written eulogy, the final draft for someone she only know by name.
without so much as a glance, they dropped the container before her just as she slid the papers across. "consider it an apology—it's clean. obviously good, i made it." gives her a knowing look before squinting down at the paper.
sat atop kitchen counter, digits furled around a forkful of leftover tiramisu from tuesday's dinner rush, mid-bite when their eyes land on the *re͟ader through the pick-up window.
a glance at the clock; it was nearly ten minutes past closing, what are they still doing here?
attempting to pander to the public for the nth (and, hopefully, the last) time. i'd be happy to offer anything: a low-rated movie to watch, a meal to eat, a seat at our supper club, or even plant-starts in exchange for good company. just leave a trace, and i might come running.