"Yo, whassup, Miss Sleepyhead."
        "He-ey!" Angel lifted her hand groggily in response to Jem's customarily chipper greeting. "It figures you'd have everything finished by 6:30. And how can you be so awake at this ungodly hour?"
        "Just me and the craft, baby. Just pure love for the craft." Angel smiled and clocked in, touching the computer screen in rapid succession with her middle finger. The printer screeched and chattered as it spat out her timesheet, which she promptly ripped off and crumpled.
        "Didja get much sleep last night?" Jem smiled wickedly.
        "I need a cigarette. No...Brody came over and we were...up for a while."
        "Awww yeah! You go, girl."
        "Shush...I feel so cheap."
        "Hey, everyone deserves a good bang once in a while. However, I wouldn't fuck him unless I needed to get laid pretty badly. And I imagine, with him, you'd get laid...badly." He sucked in his cheeks and rolled his eyes. "Excuse me while I go get 79 buckets of ice."
        "Wicked boy." Angel laughed as Jem sashayed back into the kitchen to fill his buckets. She sighed and rubbed her forehead with the sleeve of her oversized sweatshirt, trying to wake up. She shuffled over to the coffeepots, catching the toe of her soiled black and white All Stars on the corner of the rubber mat, tripping forward. "These fucking mats. I'm gonna kill myself on one of these things someday and then I'm gonna sue, and then I won't have to work here anymore." She poured herself half a cup of coffee, added a creamer and some hot chocolate, and began pulling the chairs from the tabletops as she sipped.
        "Hey, Angel! How's it going?"
        "Hey, what's up, Joey? If I'd known you were manager today, I would have brought some cool CDs."
        "Well, I guess we're stuck with Carole King and Otis today."
        "Oh, please. 86 Carole King, or I'll throw myself out this window." Angel slammed one of the chairs onto the floor for emphasis.
        Joey smiled. "Sorry. We open in twenty minutes. Are you going to be ready?"
        "Yessir."
        Jem re-entered, lugging two buckets of ice and grunting. "This job is so tired. It's time for me to retire to Costa Rica and find me a fine husband."
        Seven o'clock rolled around and the cafe opened for business, but this fact went unnoticed by the commuters, so Jem and Angel busied themselves by cutting lemons and rolling silverware.
        "So, Miss Thing, when are you going to tell Joey that you're in love with him?"
        "Ummm, well, Jem...probably when I'm sure that his wife wouldn't care."
        "Please. This is the twentieth century. Marital status is a moot point."
        "Ever hear of instant karma? That shit would come back to me a thousand fold."
        "Whatever."
        Slice, slice, roll, roll. Chaz emerged from the kitchen, cussing under his breath. Angel squelched her nausea when he passed by smelling of sweat, last night's booze, and cigarettes. Doesn't this guy ever shower? she thought. His rancid breath made her lips curl. Always swearing, that one. Swearing and stinking and sexually harassing.
        She'd been bragging about her new tattoo, strategically placed on her right breast. Chaz, being the tattoo freak that he was, insisted on seeing it. So, without thinking, she followed him into the walk-in cooler and lifted her T-shirt and bra, displaying the freshly inked snake. He leered, baring his nasty, browning teeth. "Cool," he said. "Nice boob." Since then, he'd labored under the impression that she'd issued an open invitation for a free grope.
        Angel shuddered and turned toward Jem, ignoring Chaz. "Jemmy, when does Davis come in?"
        "Eight."
        "Cool. So, I had the best idea last night."
        "For what?"
        "It's a TV sitcom, okay?" And I want it to be Penny Marshall's acting comeback - 'The New Scarlet Letter' - and it's about Laverne DeFazio from Laverne and Shirley, and she's still got the big 'L' on her blouse, yeah? Only it's red. And she and her boyfriend Carmine are in a different historical era each episode, and...wacky things happen."
        "What wacky things?"
        "I don't know...wacky things, like Laverne spills wine on Jesus during the Last Supper or something. Wacky stuff. What do you think?" She grinned slyly at him.
        Jem cocked an eyebrow and put his hand on her arm. "I think you need to put down the crack pipe and write yourself into therapy, girlfriend."
        Davis would have gotten it, she thought. Still smiling, "You don't think it's a good idea?"
        "I think you need to take care of this customer at the door."
        Angel stuck her tongue out at Jem and smiled at the handsome young businessman at the door. She began walking toward him when Jem's voice halted her. "By the way, Carmine was Shirley's boyfriend, not Laverne's."
        "Thanks, Mr. Pop Culture. One for breakfast?" The man smiled and nodded. God, I hate this job, she thought. I'm never going to make it out of here. I'll bet he's got it made. The man cleared his throat, and Angel lurched back into the moment, laughing up into his business-hardened eyes. "I'm sorry. I was just distacted by your beautiful tie. Can I get you some coffee or something?"
        "Yes, and I'm ready to order, if I could." His voice was different, not cigarette-choked like most of the trailer trash that frequented the restaurant. It was smooth, silky - so deep she could feel it in her toes. Angel tried to imagine his handshake, almost feeling the practiced clasp of his hand as it dwarfed her own - a move perfected, no doubt, during years of collegiate business mixers and career fair interviews.
        "Okay, what would you like?" Her hand trembled against the cool leatherette of her wait book.
        "Two eggs, over easy, sausage, and toast."
        "Okay, and I'll be right back with your coffee."
        Angel served him his coffee, noticing with mild interest that he declined the dish of creamers she presented. Probably works out...it figures. Minutes later, she returned to his table bearing a tray of food. She set the eggs and sausage down in front of him, smiling blankly. "Here you go." In a movement intended to be fluid and suave, she casually flung the plate of toast from the tray and stared in horror as the two triangles flew toward the customer's face. She stood, clutching the plate as he ducked and the buttered sourdough slapped against the back of the booth. He stared up at her, and she stared back, trapped as they were in a mutual state of shock. Then, Angel surprised herself in an explosion of laughter - not giggling or nervous tittering, but laughing like a person caught in a moment of unspeakable hilarity. She dropped plate and tray and bent over, grasping her knees for support as she howled. Jem emerged from the back to investigate, pushing Angel toward the kitchen while smiling unctiously at the man.
        "What happened?"
        "I was just...so...I was thinking about...PAH! HA HA!"
        "Well, congratulations! You're the first person in my four years here to try and put a customer's eye out with a piece of toast."
        Angel wiped the tears from her eyes and gasped. "Where's Davis?"
        "Not here yet." A fat, splashy crash, coupled with a very sincere "SHIT!" greeted them from the salad bar.
        "Leslie's here," Jem announced. Yes, there stood Leslie, in a huge and rapidly spreading puddle of ranch dressing. "Morning, Leslie!" Jem crowed. Angel's stomach cramped as laughter attacked her again.
        "Fuck off, Jem. I'm not in the mood."
        "What's wrong, Hubby go frigid on ya?"
        Leslie shot him the bird. "No. My cat got run over this morning."
        Angel stopped laughing, suddenly serious. "You know, I was watching my cat last night while she cleaned herself, and I started thinking about how bizarre the concept of having pets is. I mean, this is your house, and you've got animals walking around in there. I mean, you might as well have raccoons and anteaters hanging around. Animals are animals, right?" Angel popped a peppermint in her mouth and grinned.
        "Thanks for the sympathy, Ange."
        "Oh, Les. I'm sorry. You can have my cat. I don't like the idea of animals living in my house."
        Jem and Leslie exchanged looks. Jem exhaled slowly, puffing out his cheeks. "Sooo....where's Davis? Shouldn't he have been here by now?" Everyone checked their watches.
        "What color would you call my hair?" Angel asked. If Davis were here, I know exactly what he'd say. He'd say "butterscotch" and I wouldn't feel so alone.

        "I need two chicken-fried steaks yesterday!" Joey yelled through the window to the cooks. Angel pushed past him wildly, pulling eight salads out of the cooler and dousing them with with honey mustard dressing.
        "Where's my well-done cheeseburger?" she shouted. "It should have been out ages ago!" Jem rushed into the expo area and rushed back out, muttering.
        "Angel, don't yell at the cooks. That's my job." Joey said. "What do you need?" To get the fuck out of here.
        "I need a cheeseburger for table 10 and two specials for table 12. And a bowl of soup. Some stupid fucking asshole took 20 minutes to decide he wanted a fucking bowl of soup. Waste of my damn time." She rushed off to top off empty tea glasses in her section. As she passed table 9, an over-makeupped brunette waved madly at her. "Can I help you?" The woman gestured for Angel to come closer.
        "There's a fly in my broccoli," she said discreetly, pointing at the insect with her fork.
        "Oh my God." She was suddenly ashamed to be there, a representative of filth. She picked up the woman's plate, apologizing, and scrambled back into the kitchen. "This woman found a fucking fly in her broccoli, guys." She spoke more loudly than she should have, but oh well. Chaz flipped her off. She plopped the plate onto the counter and slammed through the door into the dishwashing area, fighting back tears. Is this what I went to college for? To pay off my student loans with money earned serving buggy food in a shithouse cafe? Why the fuck isn't Davis here?
        Davis would have found a way to make this situation funny...he knew what it felt like to have your hope and humor sat upon by a dead-end job. Davis would have said something like, "Hey Angel! You said you wanted it on the fly!!" Wasn't it always Davis who looked at her paintings as if they were hanging in the Louvre? Who stood up, screaming "Bravo!" at every curtain call of every show she stage managed? Who read her poetry and declared her a genius? Angel slipped out the back door onto the loading dock and lit up a cigarette. I could just walk out of here right now and never look back. I could pack up the car and just fucking blaze, and no one would know until it was too late. They'd eventually get over it, probably faster than I'd care to admit, but I'd be gone. I wouldn't give a shit. She exhaled, watching the smoke drift away, much like she'd like to. Wouldn't it be nice to ditch out on all those bills and just jet away to somewhere new? She stubbed out her cigarette and opened the door to the back dock slowly, smoothing her hair and wiping her cheeks before jumping back into the fracas with a plastic smile.

        Angel and Nicky, the hostess, stood chatting and rolling silverware after the lunch rush. "So, I wonder why Davis never showed," Nicky said between snaps of her gum.
        "I don't know, but I'm really pissed off. We were supposed to go see Citizen Kane this afternoon, and there's no answer at his house."
        "Oh, well. Wanna go shopping with me instead?"
        "Ok...not like I made any money today, surprise, surprise. Hey...door." Angel and Nicky gaped at the official-looking man with the intense, all-business eyes.
        "Excuse me ladies, but may I speak to your manager?"
        "Um...sure," Nicky stammered.
        "Goddammit, Davis," Angel said.

        "Are you okay in there?" Nicky called. Angel didn't answer. She sat on the floor with her legs tucked underneath her, leaning against the toilet. "Angel, come out. We'll go have a cigarette...Joey'll buy you a beer." She could see Nic's shoes underneath the stall door and kicked her foot out.
        "Fuck." She lunged for the toilet again, puking up nothing but bile and sadness.
        The man was a detective. He'd said horrible things about Davis and Angel had slapped him. Nicky had pulled her away from him before she could do any more damage.
        Angel stepped out of the stall and walked slowly to the sink, ignoring Nic. She ran rivers of cold water into the basin, watching as it tumbled down the plughole. Did she drown or suffocate? She rinsed her face off, rinsing and rinsing, trying to scrub off the layers of dirt and shame that wouldn't go away. She rubbed her face more and more violently, seeing nothing but the blur of her fingers as they passed over her eyes again and again. Nic placed a hand on her shoulder and pressed a towel against her cheek.

        Davis had been rejected by a young woman, someone Angel had never heard him mention. He'd been pursuing her for some time, but she'd dumped him and moved on. He followed her home from work every night, except one night last week. That night, he'd pulled her from her car as she pulled into her driveway. After forcing her into the trunk, he drove her Toyota out to the lake and parked it on the shore. He took the money from her purse, then released the parking brake and pushed the car into the water. The authorities had decided to drag the lake after she'd been missing for a week. Davis's fingerprints were all over the car and her bag. The detective said that the girl had clawed her fingers down to the bone trying to escape before she drowned, or suffocated. Angel couldn't remember which.
        She shook off Nic's arm and walked to the back dock. She stared at the empty parking lot, dragging off her Camel.
        "This fucking place. So fucking dead. It eats up your hope and turns you into a bitter old cat who hates people because you weren't tipped a few dollars more. It sours you on people. It eats up your hope." Nic did not answer. Angel stared...stared. Davis betrayed me. His hope was eaten up and he never told me. Ugly bitter buildup. Angel laughed. "Nicky, do you remember that punk rock song that Davis made up?"
        Nicky laughed. "LAST NIGHT'S MAKEUP! LAST NIGHT'S MAKEUP!!" They chuckled together at the memory of Davis's screwed up punk-rock face and laughable air guitar. Angel remembered that she had laughed until she had wept, and had gone to a table in stitches, unable to write down their order.
        She removed her tip money from the front pocket of her once-prized, now-grimy sunflower waiter's apron before untying it and dropping it to the ground. She hugged Nicky, who almost wouldn't let go. Angel flicked her cigarette into the corner of the dock, the embers scattering against the wooden fence like a miniature fireworks show. She smiled at Nicky and slipped out the back gate, where her smoke lingered long after she was gone.