"i donāt know how you do this every dayā¦"
morning is a misnomer. basically, whatever hour staggers into the diner wearing the corpse of dawn is already ancient and demanding more than it'll give back and hopper feels it in the way his knee protests the booth. those dumb kids starting mess inside the diner are finally gone at hopper's sharp tongue and word, dispersed into the great american camouflage of youth and bravado. he says leave or i can take you in: your choice. god, he's getting too old for this. the air of the diner is no longer a food fight, but a sacrament of scorched coffee and bacon fat. she's there, sister to a boy hopper knows well enough to worry about and he sees the aftermath of dumb guys clinging to her posture: annoyance, the faint iron tang of being spoken over. the coffee is placed in front of him as she speaks. ā routine. spite. .. coffee. ā and he tips the mug, salute and sacrilege, and drinks like the liquid may hold his world together alone. it's kind of a joke, if you squint hard enough, but mostly a doctrine. he sets the mug down with lazy finesse, a bit harder than necessary. ā don't really got a choice, kid. ā it comes with the badge. there it is the axis upon which his entire adult life rotates, no heroics or martyrdom. a pause, stretched thin enough to fracture, and he lets memory seep in through the cracks.
ā i used to wait. y'know, when i was a boy. ā and is it much harder and careful work than chief of police ? if you asked jim hopper, he'd say absolutely.
the past stirs up. halcyon and fraudulent: chrome-edged counters, milkshakes sweating under jukebox lights, a time when service served on roller-skates. they never put him on wheels, thank god, someone had some sense. ā yeah. leavin' that one for the pros. ā a compliment, delivered somewhat sideways for hopper was no man cut out for customer service.
ļ¼ āāā * Ā 200 RANDOM DIALOGUE PROMPTS ... ACCEPTING.
