That was how I found myself sitting opposite Emeline in a greasy red booth, both of us shivering under the diner’s fluorescent lights. As with most 24/7 establishments, the Silvercrest was home to a rotating cast of chatty winos, junkies in sandals, and insomniacs pondering their fifth cup of joe. A heroic waitress zinged between all of us, her sleepy smile like a lighthouse beam. She didn’t need a notepad, she remembered everything. Her name tag said LORI. She reminded me of Cookie, in that nothing could faze her. When she found someone nodding off in the unisex bathroom, she nudged him awake and said gently, Not here, honey. She escorted the man out the door, then delivered two slices of lemon meringue pie to a juiced-up couple in the corner. I watched them feed each other bites of pie, giggling like chosen fools. They poured mini bottles of whiskey into their coffee mugs, their legs tangled together under the table.

[...]

How different was she, really, from us girls at the club? She was the late-late shepherd of broken hearts, enabler of appetites, a cushy female presence to distract us from decay. If she was good at her job, she remembered her regulars’ names. She didn’t get naked, but we watched her ass just as hungrily, tracking her movement from table to table. Come to me, we thought, increasingly desperate. It’s my turn now. See me. Come back. It was her job to feed us, an angel in stretch pants. The difference was that the strip club was dark and the diner was bright, alarmingly so. At last, she approached me and Emeline.