The place worked on Seat Yourself because he didn't have the staff to find you a seat and the place wasn't high-fucking-dining. You sat, they came to you, it was part of every diner all over Americana even if your coffee came wheeled to your side. Nick looked like several shades better than hell, because he had one wait-staff member back on, and another who had left without a goddamn word. He wheeled over because there wasn't nobody else in the place to do it, and he brought the coffee pot braced on the arm-rest rather than on his knee because it was fresh.
She smelled like gear-changes and oil and Nick looked her over from habit, because none of that on the leather, kid. He had the menu tucked down the side of the chair by his thigh, because nobody had ever objected before, and he slapped this down as he turned over the coffee cup. She looked like she drank it.