Nick would have argued that whole line about the diner only claiming to be open later than everywhere else. The diner boasted a bunch of kids who were practically on the breadline and boosting their salaries by a couple bucks an hour each bought Nick just enough guilt-free sleep to keep on in the place out back. The diner had changed plenty, the coffee was better and the owner was mouthier and he'd finally jerry-rigged the kitchen out back so he could wheel between counter and stove-top and make eggs the way he liked them. Open up a vein and Nick probably bled New York; acid-yellow taxi cabs and the deep gray grime that streaked the brickwork oiling through his blood. He was flotsam, putting down real deliberate roots and fuck everybody who said city belonged to the city. This sonofabitch transplant was trying.
Still, the morning chef was out sick which meant the late-night cook was on cover. Nick could make eggs now, but damn if he could keep up with the breakfast rush from the chair-side view of the stove. So instead of shining morning face and all that bullshit first thing the side of the sunshine, he was yawning from the chair and clutching what was half-way between new and old coffee in the kind of mug best described as 'bucket'.
Still, his night was going blazes comparatively, judging by the woman sitting over the counter like somebody had run over her dog. Had a hell of a shiner blooming up the blade of her cheekbone, blood-fresh. She snagged a menu and he wheeled a little closer, side of the counter instead of over it. Most people were used to it by now.