I read somewhere that curdled milk is a bad omen. It also said that some dream interpretations perceive it as a sign of dirty money. While that certainly brought on a sense of foreboding for the day that was to come, I told myself that the milk expired a week ago, and I just didn't have the money to do a grocery run yet. I also reasoned that since it was in my fridge and not in a dream, the interpretation couldn't be applicable. I threw out the milk that morning. I made my own trail mix from crumbs at the bottom of the soda cracker box, some unsweetened chocolate chips from my dwindling baking supplies, and a handful of expired mixed nuts. After chasing down a half-bowl of it with a cup of black coffee, I got dressed and started my walk to the bus stop for my five a.m. shift at Marlow's. The diner at the corner of Franklin St., in the center of the finance district, was a historical icon that both old and new players of the money-trade industry respected and patronized. Its kitchen served hot and greasy breakfast from six-thirty to eleven in the morning and lunch from eleven to three. Once the markets closed, Marlow's separate lounge came to life—a perfect chaos of televised sports events, alcohol and hot wings. I started working at Marlow's when I was only fourteen, doing just the breakfast and lunch shifts at the diner since I couldn't serve alcohol yet at the lounge. I did it early in the morning and on weekends during the schoolyear and almost all week during the summer. It was good money—the customers were usually cleaner, a little better dressed, and less inclined to grope, unlike other seedier diners. Since they mostly worked white-collared jobs, they paid good tips. While I was ecstatic about leaving for Paris to become a pastry chef, I missed the diner during the six months I was gone. When I returned to the city, I showed up at Bobby's office straight from the airport, and asked for my old job back which he'd been happy to give me. The last year and a half since I came back have been hard. Without this job, I wouldn't have managed to pull through. Which is why I was adamant to keep it. Keeping it meant I didn't physically assault customers, and that meant trying my mighty best not to smash the hot sauce bottle on this man's beautiful face. Brandon Maxfield. What a bastard. Macy poked her head into the lunch room earlier where I was taking a short break and reading a local tabloid, and told me that Mr. Maxfield was asking for me specifically. That confused me because everyone in Marlow's knew Martin and referred to him by his first name. He also never came on Saturday mornings. I was always out working my tables when he came in on his usual schedule which was why he never had to summon me before. I tossed the core of the apple I'd been munching on, washed my hands, and headed out to the dining area. Scanning the room, I found Martin's usual spot, which was in a corner booth by the window, empty. Macy must've made a mistake but she coudn't possibly miss the old man. He had a thick shock of silver hair and a large, booming voice that matched his laughter. "Char, over there," Macy called out to me from the prep bar where she was sorting her orders. She cocked her head to the side in the direction of the back most corner booth on the complete opposite side of the diner from where Martin's usual spot would be. My brows furrowed further at her wide eyes and nervous shrug. Jeez. This couldn't be any odder. Martin was such a flirty, adorable, old man and all the girls here loved him. Macy looked like she was skating rather clumsily around egg shells instead of walking on them. As I made my way to the booth, Bruce Cooper, one of our regulars, stopped me with a smack on my butt as I walked past him. I stopped, took a few steps back and smacked him on the head to which he only laughed. "Damn, Little Lottie, what an arm you've got!" he exclaimed with another stream of short, snort-like chuckles. "You could be wielding a whip with that and teaching me to be a good boy." I raised a brow. "Why would I waste my time doing that when I could be pitching for the Sox? Or whacking grabby guys like you with a police baton before throwing you into a cell in the station down the block?" Bruce just smirked. "Typical of you, Lottie, to always aspire for something way above us, poor sods, here." I beamed. Bruce Cooper was a hedge fund manager, and there wasn't really a lot above him unless you counted the few geek billionaires and royalty. "Now, now, Bruce, don't get ideas into my head," I told him playfully. "I might just marry one of you, poor sods, and turn myself into one of those real housewife celebrities." The man's face actually turned a little green. "God, no. Don't you dare, Lottie." "If it happens, we know it's your fault," I told him with a wink before continuing on my way to Martin, a spring in my step.