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[Open] Coffee & Waffles
Who: Hamilton, Fatima, other patrons of the Nite Owl
What: Hamilton and Fatima retreat to a local dive to discuss their evening in a less infernal environment.
Where: Nite Owl Waffle House
When: Sunday night (August 14), 4:30 a.m., 3.5 hours after mass ended.
[OOC: This scene is open to any who would be in a place like this at a time like this, though it starts with a segue from the midnight mass scene. All welcome, but keep in mind sunrise is ~1-2 hrs away!]
The day is sliding somehow past late hours and into early ones, but no one's told the patrons of the Nite Owl Waffle House. Scattered among the plentiful booths or sitting alone at the stools in front of the bar, they are truckers and nurses and prostitutes and cops, people with nothing in common except that each is at the bottom of his or her totem pole.
These are people to whom passes the kind of god-awful night shift that leaves them hollow-eyed and sitting in a booth among total strangers, cramming thick wheat waffles drenched in syrup down their throats and drinking black coffee to ward off the darkness a couple more hours.
A waitress floats between them every fifteen or twenty minutes, refilling coffee and taking orders with a laugh that's like dragging a steel chair across the linoleum. Sinatra is playing faintly over the sound system. In the back, Dmitri is flipping some pancakes and watching infomercials on a miniature set.
Despite being cleaned almost every day, the Nite Owl seems to itself emote the same kind of grimy depression that inhabits the drooping eyelids of its clientele. This place is an institution in Cape City, it's been in business over 50 years - not that that's anything for a city to be proud of.
What: Hamilton and Fatima retreat to a local dive to discuss their evening in a less infernal environment.
Where: Nite Owl Waffle House
When: Sunday night (August 14), 4:30 a.m., 3.5 hours after mass ended.
[OOC: This scene is open to any who would be in a place like this at a time like this, though it starts with a segue from the midnight mass scene. All welcome, but keep in mind sunrise is ~1-2 hrs away!]
The day is sliding somehow past late hours and into early ones, but no one's told the patrons of the Nite Owl Waffle House. Scattered among the plentiful booths or sitting alone at the stools in front of the bar, they are truckers and nurses and prostitutes and cops, people with nothing in common except that each is at the bottom of his or her totem pole.
These are people to whom passes the kind of god-awful night shift that leaves them hollow-eyed and sitting in a booth among total strangers, cramming thick wheat waffles drenched in syrup down their throats and drinking black coffee to ward off the darkness a couple more hours.
A waitress floats between them every fifteen or twenty minutes, refilling coffee and taking orders with a laugh that's like dragging a steel chair across the linoleum. Sinatra is playing faintly over the sound system. In the back, Dmitri is flipping some pancakes and watching infomercials on a miniature set.
Despite being cleaned almost every day, the Nite Owl seems to itself emote the same kind of grimy depression that inhabits the drooping eyelids of its clientele. This place is an institution in Cape City, it's been in business over 50 years - not that that's anything for a city to be proud of.