It was the holographic ghost of a contusion's memory that had his eyes, the acidic blue of an ocean met by nuclear holocaust, following her. Not even idolizing the peptobismal appeal of her skirt, that wasn't really his style anyway. She moved with the sick grace of the already damned, but that wasn’t what captured his interest either. Lukas had never been pulled in by movement, it was the solid snapshot glimpses of reality and dreams that clogged his thoughts. Did he know this waitress?
The idea was dismissed as improbable, he’d never been in this diner before and the city was far too populated to accommodate serendipity. The candied maiden returned, shaking loose the agitation sustained by her journey to and from the coffee pot. He pulled the resting mug toward himself, examining the dark cast of his reflection in the ripples of an umber pool. It smelled faintly burnt, but promising, and he lifted his eyes just in time to catch the tail-end of her question. ...you want yet?
Eyes lit with seasoned understanding, but the expression seemed to be a distracted realization at best when he pointed out the grilled cheese sandwich plate labeled on page 2.