Chapter Text
“What do you have that’s deep-fried and at least sort of gross?”
Sydney snapped her focus up from the table she was restocking, hands full of napkins and salt packets.
“Uhhh….” She tried to remember what item had the worst reviews among the daytime patrons and the best among the nighttime regulars. “We have these breakfast burritos that were, like, already fried once but that we fry again b-before serving?” The offer comes out more like a question; as if she isn’t sure if they actually reheat the morning burritos by frying them a second time.
“I want two of those, a cup of coffee that’s half milk, and…” He glances behind them back towards the counter and the menus above it. “A coke. Coke. Do you do coke?”
“Yeah, we do coke,” Sydney nods, setting the napkins down on the table and pulling out her pad. “You can, um, sit anywhere,” She gestures with her pen to the empty diner, and the greasy, exhausted little man she was talking to nods and collapses into the seat closest to him.
Like the dutiful little night shift employee that she is, Sydney pulls two burritos off the warmers and drops them in the fryer, starts a fresh pot of coffee (out of the goodness of her heart, of course) and grabs a clean cup for his coke. Just to be kind, she throws in a brownie. He looks like he could use the carbs.
Coming back to the table he chose—one that she had only cleared, not washed—with her tray, Sydney takes a moment to actually look at him. He looks gross, is her first impression. Greasy and exhausted and not like he just had a particularly long day. His face is gaunt, and he’s sort of…tired, in the set of his eyes, the way that they’ve sunk into his head. The head in question is resting on his forearms atop the crumb-covered table, eyes shut. Sydney purposefully scuffs her shoes a little more when she comes around the corner so that she doesn’t startle him, but he doesn’t wake up.
She sighs and sets down the coke first, clanging it against the table, and he jolts awake. He recovers quickly, blinking a few times and running a scarred hand over his face. The scars are small, scattered, like small burns and oil splashes. She wonders if he’s a student at the culinary college nearby or just a poor idiot who fell into the service industry.
“Coke,” Sydney mumbles, more to herself than anything. “Gross burritos, your milk with some coffee, and a brownie. Brownie is on the house.”
‘On the house’ is more slang for ‘on her’ around there, not that he would get that. It’s not like she was out much, either, she’d just drop an extra two bucks from her tips in the register on her way out.
“Why does deep-fried taste better at night?” The guy says philosophically, staring down at the plate. Sydney hesitates, trying to think of a reasonable response, but he just keeps talking. “Like. This is bad for me. It’s terrible for me, really. Terrible for my arteries and for my pancreas and for my skin, but I’m…here. Eating it. I should go to Subway or-or-or something, so that I could at least pretend it’s real food, but I’m here. With a twice fried burrito.”
Sydney holds her tray to her chest and crosses her arms over it, watching him watch the steam rising off his food.
“Do you, um,” She clears her throat. “Need anything else?”
He turns his head, fast, like he forgot she was there, and Sydney gets a good look at the dark circles, the bags beneath his eyes.
“No,” He says after a moment. It wasn’t a weird pause, or even an awkward one. It was like he was trying to decide, or remember what to say. “No, I’m good. I think. Thank you.”
“O-okay,” Sydney draws out the vowel, before nodding awkwardly and turning back towards the kitchen. It isn’t until long after she’s resumed stocking tables that it occurs to her he probably shouldn’t be drinking both coffee and coke at the same time, let alone well after midnight. Remembering that A; there is someone here, and B; that she is supposed to be waitressing as she cleans, Sydney turns around to check on him but the table is abandoned. He left a $50 under the coffee mug, which was empty down to the cheap grounds floating in the bottom.
While she clears his table, a few things occur to her.
1. Whoever this guy is, he is clearly overworked.
2. Whatever job overworks him probably also pays him well, if he’s tipping her nearly 100%.
3. She really hopes he isn’t driving home after this.