Some people settled. Dahlia was trying her damnedest to not. She existed one foot perpetually out the fucking door. Locals--they didn't know better, and the outsiders who moved here were fucking idiots, far as she was concerned. Whatever that made her, comeback kid--maybe the city had actually killed her (as it tried, over and over again), and this place was purgatory. Another between place, another halfway home, like every place before it. That would make some sort of sick sense, yeah? Wherever she was going, in the end--wasn't gonna be here. So she believed.
Real big plans, for a career fuckup. Dahlia couldn't manage damage control better than whiskey and distractions, let alone manage shit like planning. She might be better off just politely asking the floor to not drop out from under her while she figured her life out. Again. Just, y'know. Give her some warning first, or maybe a sign, yeah? Even knowing if fate decided to spell out you're fucking everything up for her in big ass lights, she would still never see her next disaster coming.
Dahlia didn't look so much asleep on her feet as much as not entirely there--body here, head turned away, thoughts miles away. She touched her nose with a bleary sniff, glancing at her fingers--good, hadn't started fucking bleeding again--when somebody front-and-side of her said--something--
"Uh," she said, automatic. Proceeded to stare intently at the menu like laminated paper spoke to her. Well, less looking at and more through it. "Coffee," she repeated in a mumble, "yeah. An', uh--" Dahlia rubbed her forehead, giving up on the damn menu and pushing it across the counter. "Get me--whatever that plate wit' the eggs an' hash is." Picturing it in her head: fried eggs on corned beef hash, served with potatoes and sausage and toast, right? Maybe it was well after midnight, but breakfast was an all-hours event, in her opinion. "An' a side of bacon. Double." As if one weren't artery-stopping enough.