Although Lukas had already mined halfway through the crumbled den of his french fries, the ketchup mission had a more important motive. It took the waitress a couple of minutes, and he deposited the investment of his alone time into the crayola project once again. Finishing up it's beams of yellow and wide, curling scripts of brick red.
The muscled flay of his forearm concealed it deftly when she returned, practically sneaking up on him with such a lack of cacophony. He observed the bottles as they were set onto the counter, one at a time. Lukas' expressions regularly betrayed him, his face was one that showed everything without a veil of self-awareness. Now, there was a flicker of something wounded around the eyes, reading the labels of steak sauce and tabasco. He had a pantheon of flavors here, so that she may not be bothered with his neediness much more, but Lukas gave her a brief smile of thanks regardless.
Then, to frustrate her, or just vanquish her, he wrote another note.
TO GO BOX?
Obviously requested for that road kill scrap of crust and the half dozen fries left for dead on the outskirts of his plate. He waited patiently for her to trudge back in the to go boxes' direction before slipping from his chair.
But she was not to worry when she returned, he didn't skip out on his tab. There, on the table was a twenty dollar bill. One, that if someone should turn it over, offered more than just a president's face. There was a sun shining in it's wrinkled corner. Blues and greens sprouting from all directions in curls of vibrant curly-qs. And, in the middle, a message in red. Thick, cursive letters.
SMILE
The diner door sounded with a bell's ding when he slipped out to the uncirculated air in order to light a cigarette and align his eyes with the pavement for the walk home.