Description
A food court sits just off the city’s main park. It’s set around a small square with a low fountain in the middle, and always has people milling about: mothers with prams, groups of pups, couples taking a break after walking under the trees.
Different food trucks come and go with the seasons: chocolate churros in the winter, hot dogs in the summer. One place never changes, though: a little 1950’s style chrome diner serving up waffles, pancakes, and milkshakes year-round.
It’s little more than a covered bar, it's expensive, and there’s plenty of better options around. But it has rave reviews, and there’s always a row of canine men sat in the chrome barstools. Anyone wondering why just needs to watch for long enough to see the single serving-girl coming out from behind the counter.
A leggy young dalmatian, she balances a tray of food on one paw and struts down the row of men in platform heels, her plastic waitress’ dress crinkling, its scant hem flaring out with her swaying hips.
Every head turns as she walks by. A knowing smile plays over her face, but she keeps her head held high and places orders in front of customers with just enough small-talk to be polite.
When a new customer sits down, she’ll clack over the tiles to them, lean in a little, and hold up her notepad and pen. “Hiya, what’ll it be?”
Half of them say some version of “you, darlin,” and laugh, like it’s the most original joke in the world. She just gives a little laugh back, acts flattered, and repeats the question.
Despite the ogling, the catcalls and dog-whistles, she’s come to relish her command over the diner’s domain. She can keep a row of middle-aged dogs in check and hanging on her every step, every word, and paying out for just another shake, another snack, another twenty minutes of her company.
She used to feel self-concious walking home in the early evenings, but not any more. She’s in safe paws, after all – every guy in the city would murder anyone who looked twice at her outside of her diner’s sunlit afternoon world.
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