Re: Good diner: Max and Gwen
Max wasn't very good at remembering protocol either. He was also used to cities, full of skies that never dimmed and light-shows in ordinary buildings and Christmas here was a smaller, calmer affair, less hectic but still busy with packages. He was used to a world where money smoothed over all the places that might be roughened, where you could order food and ties and shirts and wine late at night, where you could go out and find things open to do or to see. Max had had a lot of money, and he'd gotten used to the easiness of what came with it.
The diner was sort of like a child's experiment, but a costly one. He smiled now. Max's smiles were the kind that were slow but bright, that took over his face and crinkled up the corners of his eyes. She was very clearly young, possibly his daughter's age-range, and he dropped the newspaper with satisfaction onto the counter.
"It is," Max didn't look her over for a source of cash because it didn't occur to Max to look for payment before a meal. It didn't occur to Max sometimes to look for it after, but that was why he employed wait-staff. He inclined his head toward the row of seats.
"We're not closed yet. You can come in, sit down. You want coffee with your pie?"