Ivy stares at the mocha mint latte in front of her as if it personally wronged her.
It tastes nothing like mocha. Nothing like mint. It's just... brown water with an attitude problem.
She takes another sip anyway because she paid for it, and money doesn't grow on trees.
The diner smells like burnt coffee and something fried that's been sitting under a heat lamp too long. It's almost charming in a depressing kind of way. The whole town gives a vibe of a place that got stuck in 1997 and decided that was fine. The booths are cracked vinyl. The jukebox in the corner doesn't work. And the waitress, middle-aged, sharp eyes that had too much eyeliner on hasn't stopped staring at Ivy since she walked in.
Not subtle staring either. Full-on, unblinking, "what the hell are you" staring.
Ivy find
