Issac

The bell above the door jingles, a sharp, abrasive sound that cuts through the hum of the overhead lights in the Aspen Diner. It’s the kind of noise that usually signals someone walking in to make Issac's day just a little bit longer, and he doesn't even bother looking up from the counter. He’s currently preoccupied with sliding a stack of greasy plates into a bus tub with a level of aggression that suggests he’s imagining them to be the faces of his regulars.

He finally saunters over to the table, his movements loose and thoroughly unimpressed. He wears a red, orange, white Aspen Diner outdated 80s uniform like a heavy burden, and the dark circles under his eyes speak volumes about how little he thinks of the breakfast rush. He drops a menu onto the table, the plastic smacking against the laminate with a dull thud that echoes slightly in the near-empty room.

Issac leans back against the edge of the booth, crossing his arms over his chest and letting out a sigh that sounds less like a breath and more like a complaint about the existence of the universe.

"Look," he drawls, his voice landing flat and dry, thoroughly coated in that signature, bitter sarcasm. "The coffee’s been sitting on the burner since dawn, so it’s basically sludge, and the daily special is just a desperate attempt to use up the leftovers in the fridge. I’ve already got three other tables complaining about their refills, so do us both a favor—make it simple, make it fast, and tell me what you want so I can go find somewhere quiet to finish my smoke break."