✖. — [ @emvry / plotted starter. ]
*〔 ❖。〕——— Lenore awakens from a nap she has no recollection of laying down to take with a groan, one hand pressing to her forehead while the other blindly feels around for her phone. She winces when the bright light hits her eyes. 7:27 PM. Weird. Not only does she not recall deciding to take a nap, she also doesn't recall it still being Thursday. Her good eye narrows when she checks the date. March 26th. With another groan, she rolls off her nest of rumpled sheets and tugs her boots back on. She would very much like to stay inside. She's had more than enough socialization for the week. But it doesn't matter what she wants; her body moves of an accord not entirely its own, feet following a pre-determined path down the rain-slicked streets, hands already knowing to pull the hood of her patched-up leather jacket over her head to avoid the sudden increase in precipitation.
It only takes 13 minutes to reach the same diner she always ends up at on however many March 26th's she's trudged through. Because she knows to avoid the older man who reeks of cigarette smoke that will attempt to solicit her for a charity that doesn't exist, and to turn right and cut down the alleyway instead of wait for the main street's crosswalk that's running behind by a few seconds. She would like to count this as a small victory. Something changed. Inevitably, though, there's an obstacle to ensure she doesn't enter the diner any later than 8:02 PM on the dot: a stray cat that takes a fancy to weaving itself between her ankles as she takes refuge under the entryway's crooked awning. Irritation crackles along her nerves when she finally does slip into the ambient light and warmth of the little diner. A quick glance at the vintage clock hanging crooked on the wall across the bar sours her mood further. 8:02 PM. Before she can spend anymore time having a staredown with the clock, a shock of fair hair and dark clothes snags her attention. Her shoulders tense further. Of course. Sitting on the third stool from the end, just as always. And, just as always, the waitress who never fails to take his order is too caught up in chatting with the linecook through the serving window to notice there's a new customer to welcome. Lenore eyes the stool by the man. The crackles of irritation begin to snap and pop like embers sputtering in a smoking firepit. Against her will, her body starts to turn towards a two-seater booth at the opposite end of the diner. Fog starts to creep in on her psyche, whispering that what she really wants out of this is a good, strong black coffee and some greasy cheese fries to stave off the hunger pains her empty fridge won't take care of (even though she got groceries yesterday- but she didn't do that last time, did she?). She blinks rapidly, then unfocuses. The lone man sitting at the bar becomes less of a person and more of the painted smear of one. The tension in her body dissipates.
When she slides onto the stool one away from his, she keeps her gaze turned down. If he recognizes her, he doesn't show it. She runs her tongue across the flats of her teeth while she waits, a heavily scarred finger plucking idly at the string of her eyepatch. Once the waitress takes her order as well and bustles off to the other side of the diner, she leans forward on her elbows and remarks, "Mushroom burger, huh? Pretty good choice. They usually get it just right." Lenore pauses to offer the waitress a tight, fleeting smile when she delivers the cup of steaming coffee. She raises the cup to her lips, puffing on it as if meaning to take a drink and leave it at that. Her eye stares back up at her from the dark liquid. She frowns. "But it's not that good, is it? You get it every time you come here. And I always get a black coffee and cheese fries. Except, I don't really want either right now. Huh." A humorless huff ripples across her coffee. Her tone falls flat when she asks, "How many times are we gonna have to eat the same damn thing? I'm getting sick of it."
