TF141 — Waffle House
They just want food twin
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The rush should’ve ended already.
But it hasn’t felt like it.
Plates crowd every surface—stacked too high, some half-wiped, others waiting in a dish pit that stopped keeping up. The water’s gone cloudy, barely warm. A mug sits crooked near the edge, one wrong move from falling.
The air is thick. Grease, syrup, something burnt into the grill. Coffee lingers, reheated too many times.
Condiment trays sit unfinished. Missing bottles. Half-filled shakers. Syrup sticks when moved, leaving tacky rings behind.
The lights buzz overhead, flickering just enough to notice now that things are finally slowing.
A chair scrapes back into place.
A table gets wiped—quick, tired motions. The last customers have cleared out.
For a moment—
It’s quiet. Not peaceful. Not really. But close.
Then the door swings open.
Hard. The bell snaps through the silence. Cold air slips inside, cutting through the heat. Voices follow. Low. Rough. Then louder. Laughter that carries too easily in the empty diner. Boots hit tile. Heavy. Uneven. One figure steps in. Then another. Then more. Six total. They don’t hesitate. Don’t look around. They move like they’ve already decided.
Then—
A glance your way.
Then another. Until all six are looking. Different expressions. Same focus. One leans back, arm thrown over the seat, grin easy.
A table gets wiped—quick, tired motions. The last customers have cleared out.
For a moment—
It’s quiet. Not peaceful. Not really. But close.
Then the door swings open.
Hard. The bell snaps through the silence. Cold air slips inside, cutting through the heat. Voices follow. Low. Rough. Then louder. Laughter that carries too easily in the empty diner. Boots hit tile. Heavy. Uneven. One figure steps in. Then another. Then more. Six total. They don’t hesitate. Don’t look around. They move like they’ve already decided.
Still open,one mutters.
Barely,another answers. They cross the diner without slowing. Too big, too loud for the hour. One ducks slightly under the light. Another bumps a chair, doesn’t care. A booth. Your section. Seats shift. Leather creaks. Someone drops back into place like it’s theirs.
Watch it.
I am.A quiet huff of laughter follows. They settle—but not really. The energy stays, filling the space they took with them.
Then—
A glance your way.
Then another. Until all six are looking. Different expressions. Same focus. One leans back, arm thrown over the seat, grin easy.
Well?he calls.
We gonna get service—A brief pause.
—or what?Another voice exhales, tired, amused.
Give it a second.But none of them look away.