Once we were seated in a sticky booth a waitress waddled over to take our order. She didn’t like our tattoos. Cyyn rest her head heavily on my shoulder.

The beauty in the breakdown was gone and all that was left was the schlump of loneliness even in a room crowded with people. She had reapplied her makeup in the rearview mirror, though I thought she looked better without it.

I figure, we all need to just cry sometimes. Especially those of us like Cyyn. She deserves the world but was too humble to merely think so.

We ate slow; picking at it, eventually turning an edible entree into mountains of goo. After, she waved for the check.

“I’ll get lunch,” she promised. Her fingernails were a chipped mess of ice blue nail polish.

“Uh, great, so who’s getting breakfast?” I asked. A kid near by snapped a purple crayon.

Her lips formed a soundless ‘oh’. Neither of us had money. We grabbed our shit, grabbed hands, and dashed. Even the child joined in the hystarical laughter as we made our hasty gettaway.