"Everybody want coffee?"
A chorus of affirmations meets Mandy's ears as she busies herself with filling the off-white mugs at the table.
"Ok, great. We've got a special on the Cottage House Breakfast: it's a ham and cheese omelet. It's got sausage or bacon, grits-"
She hesitates, chokes on her words. She makes an effort to smooth out her facial features when her eyes lock with Lip's; by the look on his face, she knows she did a shoddy job. Mandy tries to make her introduction spiel go quickly, make it less painful for all involved, even though only one person at the table looks at her, blue eyes piercing.
"-grits, um, with a choice of toast and it's $4.99. Ok. I-I'll be back to take your order."
Mandy flees to the safety of being behind the counter, concentrates on her other customers, on the routine of refilling mugs and pocketing her measly tips. She tries to keep her mind focused and not let it spiral out of control.
She sees him. She always sees him, but it's different now. A different time, a different place, a different life. He looks good; he always looks good, but his suit makes him look like he's never even stepped foot in the South Side, let alone was born and raised there, and, if she didn't know better, didn't know him, she would have accepted him as one of the trust fund kids that she usually finds sitting in her section. She hates that he seems at ease surrounded by people she can't fundamentally understand, with their formal wear and flower crowns, so different than her nose ring and burnt orange uniform. The college girls fresh faced make-up is in stark contrast to her caked-on make-up; they cover pimples and beauty marks, she covers bruises and blood.
"Mandy. Hey."
She's suddenly very grateful for the physical separation between her and Lip, courtesy of the outdated counter. Her grip on the coffee pot tightens, as she steels her spine to reply, struggling to keep her face and voice impassive.
"Want some more coffee, sir?"
"Uh, no. No. Uh, look, I didn't know you worked here."
Lip appears uncomfortable, unsure of what he wants to say or what to do with his hands. Maybe he's fighting back the urge to reach out and touch her. More likely he's in need of a nicotine fix. She wonders what his perfect girlfriend thinks of his habit, whether she needles Lip about being healthy; that seems like something a college kid with no actual worries would harp on. Mandy is young, but she knows that she will never have that kind of carefree luxury for as long as she lives. She swallows and redirects her train of thought. She focuses on being strangely pleased at Lip's sudden bout of awkwardness.
"I'll be with your table in just a minute," she forces out with an air of politeness she doesn't actually want to use.
"You look great," Lip states, sincerity and latent affection lacing his tone.
Bastard. Mandy stands stock still for a minute, takes a breath, and finally, finally, looks up to meet his eyes on her own terms. This needs to end. This needed to end months ago. Someone needs to pull the trigger. She isn't doing this for him. No, for once, she's doing something for herself.
"You want something else? More sugar? Cream?"
Lip looks at her like he's truly seeing her for the first time. Maybe he is.
"No. Uh, no, we're good. Thank you."
With a curt nod, Mandy disappears behind the swinging kitchen doors, fades away into the background. It's what she's best at.
And, if later, she fights back tears as she cleans the groups table, a slight tremor in her hand as she pockets the overgenerous, extra tip in the spot he had been sitting, well, she doesn't think too much about it.