A Waitress at a Restaurant

You park your bike by the post behind the restaurant and take care to make sure that the lock is running through the wheel and the body of the bike. You can never be too careful with your property, around these parts. Once that's squared away, you look up at the sign and sigh.

Mick's, it says in gigantic neon letters that have been tacky since the day Mick actually founded the diner.

Another day, another dollar.

You walk into the diner through the back door and grab your apron from where it hangs on your peg, replacing your coat with it as you tie the white string around your hips. You pat yourself down and glance at yourself in the mirror for a second to fix your hair. This job might be shit, but that doesn't mean you can't look good doing it.

Your hair is light brown and longish, but today it's tied up into a messy bun sort of thing. You don't wear much makeup at work, aside from the winged eyeliner. You're pretty skinny, but you'd like to think you've got nice hips, at least.

"Halle!" you hear someone yell from the front, and your moment of respite is over. It looks like it's time to start work for another day.