Re: Cass & Alex: the (bad) diner
She'd a look from the fry-cook. He wasn't her boss, that man wasn't here but anyone had more weight here than Cass. She had been placed, and she had an air of being ill-fitting and out of place. It was enough to make anyone prone to suspicion and that man had been there two decades and would die with his skillet in his hand. She'd no need to see visions to know that. He drank black coffee, thick and viscous as tar and he ate his own cooking that spat and crackled with fat. Cass had grown used to the food in the Home; it was monotonous but it wouldn't fur arteries and choke a heart stop-flat.
It was a look, and Cass gathered herself and her cup. She smiled at the very blond Alex, who spoke with the seriousness and intensity of truths. "I mean people believe things badly enough that they think they're true." Which wasn't at all a reason for why they might do awful in good's name, but Cass spoke dreamily, as if the conversation had bends and undulations in it that Alex had no cognisance of.
"I've got to go," she said, apologetically. She swept his paper carcasses into the palm of her hand, with one smooth gesture. "But come back, Alex White. Come and see me, and the awful coffee."