The cafe stinks. A miasma of rancid grease hangs in the air and as we sit at a table my hand sticks to the vinyl surface.
The customers aren’t much better. They’re not the addicts and the drunks we passed along the way, but they are the poorest of the poor, the lost and the lonely. The have-nots and the never-hads. Louts and boors who think that a girl who serves coffee might deliver more.
What the f**k"s she doing working in a place like this?
Then I realise I spoke out loud. James nods, his lips pressed white.
We take a table, and now closer to her, we can see. She moves slowly, with a weary air that speaks of exhaustion and hopelessness. She"s lost weight. Her skin is sallow and her hair dark with grease. There are deep shadows under her eyes, but more than that, her sparkle is gone
