He was kind of starving. Not literally. Never literally but Jamie had an appetite that was built around class, every morning for four hours and then a break and then rehearsal for four hours and then a break and maybe a performance. His metabolism ran like a Japanese subway: ahead of schedule. The rec center was closer to the bad diner than it was the better diner and the class that had just let out, was older people. People who didn't appreciate the ambiance of grease and old coffee, who didn't get that there was a vibe. They mostly wanted their home fries to taste fresh and their coffee to be served by someone who smiled. They tipped.
But after a class that ran long, to the sound of the track in the machine instead of the pianist, Jamie didn't actually want to be around his students. Even if they were like, older than him, it still felt weird. And his eating habits were ...not something observable. As if on cue, Jamie sat down, someone else was handed a plate that looked like the entire back page of the plastic-coated menu put on one poor-ass little plate and his stomach growled audibly.
"Give in to the massacre," it was more manners than he expected in the little diner. His mom would hate this place. It wasn't even ironic, it was just cheap. Jamie grinned at the guy shovelling ham into his face like someone was going to take the plate - if he didn't get an order soon, Jamie was gonna start thinking about it. "I think if you add some ketchup you can go full Amityville on that thing."