Baby Cakes

 

 

 

“Ugh,” I groan. “Not again.”

“Well, I’m about to take my break,” Marcie says from a few feet away, giving me a knowing shake of her head. “Sorry, Eli. You’re on your own.” She pushes herself off the chipping wall she’s leaning against, taking her phone and cigarettes with her. She wastes no time in leaving me there by myself, swiftly avoiding what I’m going to have to deal with.

Again.

The apology in her voice does little to make me feel better about tolerating Clover’s douchiest customer.

And, boy, is he a douche: with a bold, underlined, capital ‘D’.

Frank Poshner waltzes in with his typical arrogant and boisterous demeanor, prancing inside like he owns the diner along with the rest of Los Angeles. And he has a larger crowd with him today.

Ugh. Fuck my life to hell and back.

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