“Patty melt, fries, and a dark chocolate shake please.” She says with a grenadine smile. Her lips stained a syrupy red from spiked Shirley Temples all night. There are five of them sitting at her table, college girls in bar clothes. They come in every few weeks, to this diner a block down from a bar that caters to a college they don’t go to. They talk about classes, the twelve boys of Christmas, their neighbors who like to have sex on the balcony. They are tipsy and oh so young. I make sure their water glasses are always filled.
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