priscilla king. d7. cbd3. (fin)

it's 5 o'clock when the gang strolls in, all neat and cult-like, half a dozen teenagers cramming themselves into a booth at the very back. the one where the leather isn't quite as peeled, not quite as sticky, strategically placed away from the bathroom. the one i wouldn't let my own brother sit in, even if he payed me a hundred bucks - but harper's pretty lame anyhow.

see, i've always gotta keep it free for my friends. i'm popular as fuck, you know. little old lady tried to sit there this morning and i had to put on my very friendly waitress face and tell her "no ma'am, i'm sorry ma'am, this booth is reserved ma'am." you're really gonna kill my rep here ma'am.

anyways, it's not that much trouble, dimming the lights and hiding in the staff room, because once everyone sits down they don't leave 'til close. eli says it's 'cause he wants to keep me company but i think he just wants to get in my pants. i tell him to stick it and he orders the most expensive thing on the menu.

i used to come here all the time as a kid, sit on the barstools all high and mighty like, getting all kinds of vertigo, up past my bedtime, playing i spy with an empty glass until i ran out of red things. i'd watch the guy behind the counter count change and pretend he was my dad, the lady in faux fur behind me my mom. because shit was complicated, and i still haven't been to visit mom - the real one. i've only just gotten my life together, moved on to bigger and better and brighter things. i'd totally get ditched if anyone found out we were related.