He rose to his knees and hovered over her on the twin- sized bed of his small townhouse bedroom. The desk had books on it thrown about and the TV, which sat on top of the frame, was on a sports network she did not recognize. He had piles and piles of shoeboxes under his bed next to his storage bins of clothes, drawer, and mini fridge. His closet stood tall in a corner topped with empty alcohol bottles, deodorants, lotions, and shampoos. The walls were blank and emotionless like his stare.
“This elevator is a piece of shit.” The extremely abrasive assistant manager, Becky, spoke aggressively with her hair in a bun tied tight enough to give someone a migraine. She furiously pressed the 5th floor button repeatedly as if that would make the elevator unstuck. She stood tall at 5’11’’ in heels and wore her resting bitch face proudly. Her anger probably has something to do with her lack of promotion after being the assistant manager for eight years.
The waitress flashes a forced smile at me probably wishing to be anywhere but Frog Pond Diner. The booths had rusted springs that poked through the harsh plastic cover, the walls were discolored and stained with grease, and mice dropped in like it was their vacation home. The staff was depressed, the food was mediocre, and all of our regulars are retired men and women that sit on a cup of coffee for two hours.