Cedar couldn’t help but notice, even with crayola-colored hair, Mishka looked like she’d been made to sit on that seat in 1949, all she needed was a poodle skirt, but the large sunglasses she had on seemed to work, too. If she wrapped a scarf around her hair, she could be an alternative Jackie O.
All along the walls and overhead, paper plates were tacked and taped to the walls, with the daily specials magic-markered onto each one. When Mishka slid her glasses onto her head, holding back some of her hair, Cedar couldn’t help but notice a couple of different guys around the counter giving her the eye.
Her smile when the woman at the counter came over was hard not to appreciate.
She ordered the cornbread french toast; Cedar decided on the homemade hash breakfast. He didn’t want to blame the men for ogling her, but he did. He felt a little curl of resentment in his belly. Fighting the urge to lay claim to her with a possessive touch, he fiddled instead with the cup of coffee set in front of him. He wiped his face, cleared his throat. God he was tired. He hadn’t pulled an all-nighter since, well, maybe police academy, or even before that. Maybe he was fifteen or sixteen, back when he’d still take a night off to run crazy with his friends, build a bonfire in a field, drink some beer pilfered from parents’ fridges, maybe smoke some wacky tobaccy.
Instead of giving in to bad manners or exhaustion, he asked, “So what’s brought you to here, Mishka? To leaving everything.”
She put only sugar in her own mug. “Why did you decide to come along, Officer?”