Over Easy

Formica tabletop. Fake wood grain, the color of vomit after whiskey and regret. Booth’s got that split in the vinyl that always pinches skin when you slide in careless. Coffee tastes like it was brewed through a jockstrap and left on the burner since Reagan was president.

She’s got a pen behind one ear and a cigarette behind the other, which means she’s either quitting or doubling down.

Name tag says: Roxy.

She doesn’t ask what you want. Just stops, one hip cocked like a loaded gun, and raises an eyebrow. The kind of eyebrow that’s interrogated a thousand drunks, divorced six husbands, and still smells like Chanel No. 5 over Marlboro Red.

“You gonna order something, or just undress me with those discount eyes?” she says.

“You serve existential crisis with the eggs, or’s that extra?”