Tick...tock...tick...tock...
Mags strummed her fingers against the counter she was currently leaning back against, watching out the window at the cloudless sky and the busy people walking by as they carried on their daily lives in the outside world while she was stuck inside, scraping for tips. The clock was the only sound, with its incessant ticking, aside from the occasional scrapes on the plate from the elderly couple enjoying their early dinner at four in the afternoon.
At least they'll leave a tip, she thought to herself, a small comfort in the back of her mind. Business was usually slow midday, most folks deciding they'd rather come to Waffle House later in the evening or, low and behold, in the morning hours. Being assigned an afternoon shift sucked for tips and she still had nearly two hours left to suffer through the quietness.
Ugh.
Beejoux
