The bells over the entrance of Pop’s alert FP to the fact that there’s a new customer, but he doesn’t look up from his warm mug of black coffee - on the house, because Pop never lets him pay for anything, not when he comes in this late, especially not when he’s sporting a freshly blooming black eye or split lip or sometimes both. It’s neither tonight. Tonight he’s just… lonely. Not by any means, a new feeling for him, but sometimes it hits harder than others, especially now that he’s out on his own. Still beats living with his old man. He’s not complaining, it’s just, sometimes he needs to be around people. Even if it’s just Pop Tate. And whoever else is looking for company this side of the tracks so late at night.
FP’s no stranger to the diner and its late night patrons. Usually drunks looking for something greasy to sober them up, or the occasional suburbanite looking for a quiet escape from what they deem to be a boring life. Those are always the worst. The cleancut housewives and husbands who stroll in thinking they have some problem they need to outrun.
Sometimes he can sell to them, though, when he happens to have a stash of the good pharmaceuticals on hand. Yuppies love pills. And maybe he should feel bad exploiting other people’s misery, but. It’s kinda hard to when it puts food in his stomach. Or at least beer in his fridge.
Maybe he can sell tonight. He’s got a couple of xanax on him, would be easy enough to get rid of. North Side housewives are always looking for xanax.
But there’s no North Side housewife to be seen when he finally lifts his gaze.
He bristles when he sees who actually came through the door; shiny black hair sweeping down a pastel purple and white sweater with a band of snowflakes wrapping around her chest, perfectly manicured nail tapping away on the front counter as she awaits her order, general air of disinterest and pompousness like she’s too good for anyone around her. Of all the people to walk into Pop’s tonight, of course it had to be Hermione Gomez.
