1. a humble abode where both our routes meet

It's 6:29pm on a Tuesday, and as expected, the stream of customers coming and going is slow. An elementary school kid in orange—a regular—takes about half an hour to decide what treat he'll be munching on today, and when he finally slides the menu back into my hands I just beam at him and throw in a glass of milk on the house. I don't mind all this slowdown turnaround; I can sit behind a counter and smile and take orders and wipe after their messes until all their faces blend into one and their voices mingle with the steady music being played overhead, and I'd still be able to get up the next day and do it all over again.

He's a doll, really, this kid, since he always examines the menu so quizzically yet he ends up with the same thing every time—chocolate chip muffin, preferably crunchy on top and chewy in the middle—and he always sits so straight, his little fingers arranging and re-arranging the utensils in front of him like he wants to make a dent in the polished wood. When I bring him his muffin, he'll usually try smiling uncertainly at me, but before I can smile back he's always looking away.

So I go back to wiping the counter and greeting people, because it's all smiles, all business in Chagall Café.

—

You can find me here at the café every day except Monday, since that's when I have pre-college prep. You'd think I'd get bored of this place with the dimpled buttercup walls and the shiny counters that always smell like sultanas, and most days you'd be right. There are days where I'd just stare through the display window at the fountain at the centre of the mall, and there are days where I barely look up from the counter at all. And then there's Fridays.

Fridays are usually days where I expect Pancakes, Extra Butter to step in and mutter his usual order of pancakes, extra butter in that distracted way of his. He's always in his school uniform, a nondescript red vest over an equally as nondescript white shirt ironed so smartly the edges look like they could give you a papercut. I bring his pancakes, extra butter with extra-extra butter in a dish, because he's bound to ask for more. Coffee's a given, especially if Apple Fritter decides to show up halfway through Pancakes, Extra Butter's breakfast-for-dinner binge.

I'm standing by the counter, wiping it down and appearing invisible unless a customer wants more coffee, that's what I do on Fridays. I keep the coffee coming, since Apple Fritter's looking mighty pissed today from the toes of his boots right up to the brim of his beanie cap and I make sure to hand him one of our sturdier mugs since I'm pretty sure he's killed a man with those thumbs before. Honestly, I don't know why he bothers to show up to eat with Pancakes, Extra Butter if all he does is stay quiet and snap at Pancakes, Extra Butter to shut ya trap whenever Pancakes, Extra Butter mentions tartar sauce and recruiting members and why are you always so stubborn you dick, I'm trying to help you here.

Apple Fritter's always in some sour mood or other, always moodily handing back the menu I just slid towards him. He already knows what he wants, he expects me to always know what he wants and it's always apple fritters, since he nearly flipped his shit when he found out we didn't stock Tiramisu anymore ever since Jolina's Unfortunate Traumatic Dieting Faux Pas of '08. It's a good thing he likes our apples, since I'm not sure he's the forgive, forget type. Not with those thumbs.

"Can you just shut up already?" he drawls into his plate of apple fritter, and Pancakes, Extra Butter shuts up already, much to my surprise. He doesn't usually let up that easily, but this time he runs a gloved hand through his silver hair and leaves, looking determined as ever. Apple Fritter clicks his tongue in a way I've come to know so well and leaves without paying and this is the part where I usually go

"Damnit!" Because he rarely—if ever—pays, and I always manage to forget.

—

Hot Chocolate's looking a little down in the dumps today, even more so when he accidentally spills his drink across the marbled counter, but I beam and smile, beam and smile, and ask him how his day is going.

"How's your day going?" I expertly lift his coaster and flip it into my other hand, replacing it with a fresh one while mopping up the rest of the spilt drink.

"Sameoldsameold," he replies in one long sorrowful exhale, and my heart bleeds for this guy and his tattered little school cap. Another Gekkoukan student. This place reeks of them. Not that I'm complaining or anything, since I'm just a waitress and we like tips, especially in noted form.

The counter's dry and chocolate-free, it's so shiny I can grin down at it and it'll grin right back at me, and I am just so good with a tablecloth. Hot Chocolate tries to help by dabbing the last of the nonexistent chocolate with a crumpled napkin. "Sorry about that. I'm not usually a klutz."

And he's not, whenever he comes by on Thursday evening. Sometimes accompanied by a girl with dimples so deep it looks like her cheeks have been slashed with a euphoric blade, who also always seem to have gotten in a scrape; sometimes begrudgingly trailing behind a girl sporting some fly hair.

"It's alright," I say. "Will that be all?"

"Uh…" He squints at the overhead menu. "Yeah, can I have a bag of dark roast coffee beans?"

"Again?" Alright then, Mr. I Confess to Being a Hot Chocolate Devotee by Buying Overpriced Overheated Drinks Every Thursday, one bag of dark roast for you, enjoy. Hot Chocolate catches the look on my face and grins. "A dude in my dorm lives for this. He also happens to be this motha-bangin' chef so to keep the two-way street busy, I buy him coffee beans and he makes us some awesome brownies."

I nod at all the right moments and smile at the end of his sentence, and do my ninja-mug-flipping techniques after he's all done, and I earn a little bit extra by tips today. Jolina's instantly by my side though, squawking down the Tip Jar. Her latest diet fad was not to reduce sugar intake, but to cut back on any type of food intake. Her little thermos of cayenne pepper, maple syrup and laxative tea is surgically attached to her hand as she sips it at 3 minute intervals.

"I see you've started your starvation thingy," I remark.

Jolina puts her nose up in the air. "It is not a starvation thingy, it's called the Detox Diet." She takes another sip of it and tries not to look at the peanut butter cookies I'm sliding out of the oven. "And what I am doing is called the Master Cleanse, right? After these ten days are up, I am going to be cleansed, free of toxins and most importantly, rested."

"Er," I say. What does one say in situations like these? Do I talk her out of her obviously deluded plan of self-starvation, or urge her on, all the while knowing she's going to burn out?

I steal a glance at the Tip Jar, which is on the road to filling its quota. "You look good."

Jolina's (free) hand fluttered to her chest. "Right? Sure, I have to go to the bathroom a lot—I'm actually feeling the thunda from down unda right now, right? But my God, if I hear another person saying how thin I am and how gorge my butt looks in this skirt I am going to just die." She rolls her eyes and takes another gulp of her deadly mixture. "I mean, I know I look great just don't get all in my face about it, ya know?"

"Annoying," I say absent-mindedly, because the little bell by the door jingles and I turn to see Orange Sorbet, she of the happy cheeks and Hello Kitty band-aids.

"I mean, I haven't even reached target weight lost," Jolina's saying, annunciating her last three words carefully. I smile back at her like I'm supposed to, all business.

—

so sydney was hitting me with some prompts and since i don't like turning down dares... this happened.

disclaimer: i do not own persona.