“The usual, please.”
The waitress began to prepare the omelet as she usually did for this customer, a scraggly- looking, somewhat impatient regular whose name she believed to be Dave. She took a heaping scoop of egg powder from the stained plastic bucket, mixed it with water from the rusted tap, and slapped the mixture onto the frying surface. It was already coated with pre-used lard.
The waitress leaned against the counter, swearing as her jean-covered hip absorbed a spot of oil. And then an uproar began in the diner.
Of the thirty people seated, over half stood up, some standing on their chairs, all craning their necks to see the oddly-dressed man who had just entered. One diner screamed, knocking his empty glass sundae bowl to the floor – where it shattered cacophonously – in his excitement at seeing the newcomer.
The man who just walked in was Cooper-Jack Brien, clad in his signature pink suit and gripping his camera tightly, as if it were about to be snatched right from his hand. The acclaimed photographer raised the camera to his eye and took a photo, the click echoing around the suddenly-quiet room. He then walked out. Almost magically, the diner instantly turned normal again. Everyone sat down, resuming the tedious clinking of their metal utensils and the unsavory sounds of people chewing.
The waitress grasped her chest, somewhat disturbed. Then –
“How about those eggs?” Dave said crossly.