Café Au Lait is a quaint little eatery tucked along Atlantic City’s boardwalk. It’s got charm, but it’s definitely seen better days. There’s a scattering of people here and there, all sorts of twisted motherfuckers.

At the main counter, a waitress dressed in a light blue and white uniform, including a name plate and an apron around the waist, is busy scrubbing circles on the flat platform she’s leaning on. She sighs, realizing her life is just like the pattern she’s tracing: revolving, redundant, no go-around different from the latter.

An old man sits in the corner smiling at something. Perhaps a happy memory he’s managed to salvage and protect all these years. It’s laced through the crevices of his brain; a film loop of days lived in faded glory. Or, he could just be some old bastard, getting kicks from watching the waitresses. It’s so hard to tell these days.

There’s a family of four near there, possibly stopping in after some long hours on the road on a trip to somewhere like grandma’s house or near one of them amusement parks. The boy, sixteen or so, does seem to be distracted by something. Whatever it is, it’s not stopping his mom from dragging him out of it, long enough for him to hear sound bites about the upcoming school year. He’s gripping his fork, prongs up. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

The weather today is hostile with chances of homicidal backlashes. We advise you to stay indoors.

What Dylan noticed most from her cozy booth in the corner was a cute tyke, 3 or 4. A boy with cute, bright cheeks made for pinching and kissing. He’s hunched over a coloring book with a red crayon in hand, bright yellow box off to the side. His little legs swinging to and fro, he’s humming a song he just made up. He’s trying his hardest to stay in the lines, makes his impressions hard, so it’s more vibrant. This will definitely make the fridge. Occasionally, he softly pats his mother next to him, trying to divert her attention. She mostly ignores him, or says “Good job” after a glance. She and her husband are in a hushed argument about the woman that called the house the other day. She’s sure a telemarketer wouldn’t tell her she’s three months pregnant.

Dylan secretly races him, trying to finish an illustration before he can turn the page. Her weapons are a newspaper laid flat out on the table, and a pen she found on the floor. It’s got nice handling. She uses the blank spaces to draw on. When she runs out of room, she draws on the pictures, the words. The score is 4-3, she’s in the lead. There’s a cup of coffee on the right of her, as well as various brands of sugar packets littered alongside it. She fixes the sunglasses pushed up on top of her head, filling in a voice bubble. The cigarette smoldering between her lips is about through.

A waitress sneaks up on her. She’s bubbly and sweeter than fresh honey.

“Can I get you anything, sweetheart?”

Terms of endearment sounded stale to Dylan, but her genuine nature made it fresh again.

”What’s your special today?” She wasn’t hungry and didn’t particularly care.

”Well, we’re offering a meatloaf and mashed potato dinner, with a choice of either corn or peas as the added side dish.”

”Is gravy included in that meal?”

”Why, yes, of course.”

”Yes, of course. What kind of pies do you have?”

”We’ve got apple, peach, boysenberry, key lime –“

”What’s your favorite?”

”I, myself, have been partial to the peach.”

”I don’t think I’ve ever had peach pie.”

”Well, we’ve always specialized in the best, freshest pies. Won best in the county fair three years running!” She smiles a satisfied smile, glowing. Dylan didn’t even know they had county fairs here.

”I’ll tell you what…” She takes a glance at the woman’s nameplate. “Lucille, I’ll give that a slice of pie a day in court, as well as one more cup of coffee.”

”Certainly.”

She bounces away and Dylan looks over at the boy again. He doesn’t know what his parents are talking about, but it’s starting to get to him. She sighs and looks out of the window. She’s right on the boardwalk, so there are plenty of freak folk about. Their tattoos bright and their piercings glittering.

“Here you are, dear.” Lucille places a plate down in front of Dylan, as well as a napkin and a fork. She refills her mug as well.

“Thanks.” Dylan courtesy smiles at her server as she walks away. She’s not that older than her; what’s with the endearments?

She stubs out her cigarette, and cuts off a small piece with the fork. She chews cautiously, as if making up her mind. It’s really no point to it; she’s going to pay for it eventually.

Something catches her eye in the street. There’s a brunette with a pleated skirt and a tall guy with cowboy boots. A couple’s quarrel. Or, maybe it’s not a couple, that’s her pimp. She wished she knew how to read lips. She sips her coffee, watching shamelessly. She slapped his chest. He yanks her hair. As with all brazen voyeurs she wonders if she should do something. Then, like all brazen voyeurs, she decides not to.

This is terrible.

She’s terrible.

He’s getting on his knees now, pleading maybe. Well, whatever he said she didn’t like; she just kicked him in the face. Well, the police have decided to step in, arresting her entertainment. They’re putting up quite a fight, kicking and screaming. She looks around the diner, surprised no one else has noticed this. Then again, everyone seems to have their own problem going on.

One police officer wrestles the guy to the ground and keeps him put with a knee to the spine. The police officer with the girl is talking to her. Everything seems ok, until she breaks off into a run. The officer catches her and shoves her against a wall, pinning her. This is more drama than Brandy Cannondale.

Dylan eats another piece of pie as the girl bites the cop’s hand.

The cop with the guy is forcing his head into the car. The guy manages to stomp on the cops foot and run off, cuffed and all. The girl throws an elbow to the cop in the face and flees in the same direction of her “friend”.

Wow-wee.

She eats the crust of her pie and finishes off what’s left of her lukewarm coffee. She stands and stretches, then folds the newspaper to place under her arm. After, she retrieves some change from her pocket as payment and places it on the table.

She heads for the door, when something hits her heel with a soft, muted tap. It’s a crayon. Blue. She bends at the knee, picks it up. She places it on the boy’s table. He looks up and smiles at her. She smiles back and strokes his cheek. It's softer than she imagined. She looks down at his colorings.

“Nice work.”

“Thank you, miss.”

His smile is more remarkable than the gap between his teeth and so sweet she could cry. His parents still haven’t noticed this. She smiles back, patting his cheek softly and declares him the winner.

She heads out the door and pulls down her shades. She now sees the world through violet.