Dylan is armed with (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} jazzhands) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} rooms, |
It kind of used to be my job, playing it safe. [He smiled up at the reflective panels in the ceiling, cheap replica chrome like the diner didn't even have the spirit to wish for gold. Dylan liked it. He liked greasy spoons, they used to make his grandmother cringe and he had vague memories of his mother praising their historical merits because of that very reason. He liked shitty, strong coffee. He liked the way she groaned when he ordered it.
He glanced after the waitress with the sagging apron that was beyond the help of bleach or hope.] Don't worry, you'll never work here. You'd blow the place up if they even mailed you an application.
[When the coffee came, Dylan shrugged at the idea of her being this slightly-less height forever. The difference didn't seem all that great to him, not enough to warrant not drinking coffee. Fuck that, Max's nutritional deficits were on her. He reached for the sugar, undeterred by the way she took hers bitter black. She could be short and stuck with shitty, plain coffee for her whole life, but Dylan was taking his sweet. Diabetes, here we come; he stirred in a lengthy pour of white with the water-spotted oval of his spoon.] You live off of shitty beer and pizza crust, some coffee is going to be the least of your problems.
[He sipped, making a slight face at the scald... and then an eyebrow raised when she said that she was living in the park with the wildlife(and hobos).] Really. [It wasn't a question, but more of a comment to showcase his suspended disbelief.] What about your sister?