“What’s a diner ?” she asks.

‘She knows what is and what isn’t anti-Semitic rhetoric, but not coffee or a diner?’

“It’s like a smaller, shittier restaurant,” I answer. Maybe that’s an unfair thing to about diners in general when it’s this specific diner I have a problem with. As we walk past the small garden of tulips for which the diner is named. The cheap but reliable air conditioner blasts my face with dry cold air, sending shivers down my spine. As expected this early in the morning and in this heat, there are no other customers.

The checkered tiled floor and the red seat cushions gives the place a 40’s vibe. Windows are as dirty as they've ever been, dust blown by rushing cars make for poor views from the booths. Not that there's anything worth seeing anyway. I lead Witch-Hazel to the booth that I usually go to when I'm here.

She sits next to me instead of across. I'm not sure which I would've preferred. She picks up the menu and starts looking it over.

‘Wonder what kinda food she had growing up? What’s magic food like?’

“Are you going to order something?” She asks me.

“Absolutely not. I wouldn’t recommend the food here.” I idly play with the salt and pepper shakers.

“Why not?” I don’t know how to explain to her that this isn’t a real diner and it’s just a front for what goes on in the basement. Anything I say will bring up more questions and possibly cause some trouble.

“They have a terrible chef here. If you’re hungry I’ll take you somewhere better but we’re just here for business.”

“Mhmmm, it’s always business with you, isn’t it, Hotshot Girl?” A voice says. I turn to see a waitress with a smug look. She called me by a certain online handle I use. I only have one good eye to look out of. I don’t know her pretty face from a can of paint and the ugly red waitress uniform does nothing for her, but I recognize the curves of her body anyway. Even with clothes on.

“‘Sup, Chica En Fuego?” It’s best we call each other by our usernames. Or at least that’s the rule I put on our relationship. If exchanging faceless nudes, spicy texts, and the occasional video chat with a girl you’ve never actually met can be considered a relationship that is. Either way, I make it a point to not look at her name tag. Which is hard considering her sizable chest.

“‘Sup? That’s all you have to say to me? You ghost me for a week, then you just pop up where I work? What kinda game you playin’?” She scolds me, very unprofessional for a waitress I must say. I didn’t even know she worked here.

“I’ve been busy,” I say, pointing to my bruised eye. She’s unconcerned. With her ‘charming’ personality I know she’s just been hired as eye candy by that scumbag manager. Smart move, really.

“You’re always busy,” She gestures to Hazel. “Who’s she?” Hazel no doubt senses the hostility and tries to diffuse the situation.

“I’m new in town and she’s just helping me get acquainted with your city.”

‘Acquainted. So fancy.’

Chica scoffs.

“I didn’t know you liked them scrawny,” she jabs. Rather than dignify that with a response I decide to take the high road.

“Can we some water please? Plenty of ice, it’s so hot out,” using the voice I used in some of our video chats. She shifts a bit, my voices stirs something in her.

“Sure.” She walks away before turning around. “Word of advice, honey,” she addresses Witch-Hazel. “She doesn’t know how to love.” Chica leaves on what is the most cutting remark I’ve ever heard from a waitress. I'm too surprised to say anything. I mean it’s true but no one wanna hears that shit in a diner.

“I don’t think I like this place,” Witch-Hazel simply says. She graces me with a small smile. It makes me feel a bit better somehow and I can’t help but laugh a little.

“Like I said, it’s a shitty restaurant.”

“What was going on between you two?”

‘Where to even begin with that?’

“It's ...complicated.” it’s honest at the very least. She shrugs with a knowing smirk.

“You’ll explain it to me one day,” she says with the utmost confidence. Like she knows it for a fact.

‘God, how can she be so cocky? And how come I like it so much?’

We hear the door opening and the person I’ve been waiting to see comes in. Sitting in the same booth, across from us.

“Larkspur, this is Hazel. Hazel, this is Larkspur my...co-worker.”

“Hey.”

“Hello.”

“Okay, now that this meet ‘n’ greet is over. Let’s get to business.”

“You’re lookin’ good, Holly,” they greet me. Larkspur is the most androgynous person I’ve ever met. Them being non-binary is a happy coincidence. Any masculine features they have are countered by feminine ones. Coalescing into one dark brown-skinned being that many people tend to overlook and in our line of work that’s a good thing. They’re wearing a purple tank top, showing off the many tattoos that complement the first one we both got.

A skull surrounded by, crowned with, and overflowing with bay leaves paints both our deltoids. Symbolizing who we are a part of, what we’re capable of and willing to do.

“Thanks.”

“Your last job give you that much trouble?”

“No actually, the client did this to me,” I explain.

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know! You put me onto that job,” I accuse. Larkspur is a stoic person, it’s always been hard to read their face. The most minute micro-expressions they have when they lie are nowhere to be seen. They‘re telling the truth...maybe.

“After I finished the job, I went to get my payment and instead they jumped me!”

“Why? You do something to piss them off?” That’s a fair question to ask.

“No, I followed their instructions to the letter and they tried to kill me. They didn’t even say anything. The only reason I survived was ‘cause I heard one of them take the safety off his gun. Turned into a bloodbath real quick after that. And the briefcase was empty! After shooting and stabbing me, the least they could’ve done was have something in there,” I recount.

Larkspur grimaces at my story. It’s a lot to take in and I could be lying. If I were on the other side of this conversation, I’d think I was lying. But I’d have to be stupid to lie over such a small job. Then again, I’ve never been accused of being smart.

“And what about her?” They gesture to Witch-Hazel. “How does she-” interrupted by the fantastic service of our waitress.

“Two waters. Ice.” Chica leaves again. Hazel lifts her glass to drink and I put my hand over it.

“I wouldn’t do that.” She definitely spit in it.

“As I was saying,” Larkspur continues. “Who is this?”

“This is Hazel. She saved my life. After I got out of there, I was two steps away from kicking the bucket when she found me. Patched me up, let me rest at her place, and here we are.” Larkspur looks Hazel over. She sits there with her hands folded. I didn’t consider the fact that she might not understand everything that’s happening.

“I have to make a phone call,” Larkspur says, getting up. I guess they didn’t set me up but I have to make sure.

Hazel, bored, takes the condensation from the glass. All the water pools in her palm and starts to float like a bubble. With the flick of her index finger, it starts to change shape, turning into a flower of some sort. Little strands of purple energy guide the water. I’d be impressed with the display of magic if I wasn’t trying to find out who betrayed me.

She drops the flower as Larkspur comes back.

“You’re gonna have to come in. Boss wants to see you.”

‘Ugh.’

“Both of you,” Larkspur elaborates. I turn to Witch-Hazel.

“Look at you. One day in the city and you’re already meeting the leader of the Bay Leaves.”

Chapter 2 End.