Entering the old-timey dinner that looks like it’s still in the seventies, we are told to sit wherever we want by the red-headed waitress. Ari and I take a booth in the back. I like to be a little hidden. The headed waitress, who looks like she is in her mid-forties, heads over to us. The over amount of wrinkles on her face tells me she’s a heavy smoker, and the scent of cigarette smoke surrounds her. I don't even need Ari’s heightened senses to smell it. “What can I get, you kids?” She asks in a raspy voice that once again confirms the number of cigarettes she smokes. “Coffee, black, please,” I answer. “I’ll have coffee too, but cream and sugar, please,” Ari says sweetly. The waitress no
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