Abby makes it to the Servant Entrance and sets up a lovely bunch of killing machines.
I’d stopped in a small diner on the outskirts of a small Midwestern city. The place was barren, being just past two in the afternoon. The only other person in there besides the young waitress, a done up college student who’d driven out to the not yet suburbs for the job, was an older gent sipping his coffee. The joint hadn’t been redecorated since the late seventies or early eighties. Wood paneling, shitty thick curtains that dulled the light coming through into an ugly, unpalatable yellow, and the same nauseating American kitsch so lauded as quintessential to the American experience, made the place a horrid throwback to the idea of an era that never truly existed.
The waitressed smiled, adopted a fake southern charm, and started with the kind of flirting years of patriarchy had taught her to employ in order to achieve better tips. Despite the off-putting nature of being flirted with by someone at least thirty years my junior, hoping if I didn’t show interest she might stop, it wasn’t her fault. I debated asking her to stop, to let her know I knew, to establish solidarity, but what would that have accomplished? It would just delay a turkey on rye.