Anis made a beeline to the front counter and slotted herself in the back of the line. She breathed deeply, fiddling with the crisp bills her hands.  The smell of eggs and bacon was still thick in the air, and as the waitress walked by, so did the aroma of coffee.  

The ring of the cash register brought her attention to person in front of her—she was overwhelmingly short in comparison to the skinny man.  She took a small step to his left, and then saw the old woman behind the register.  The old woman’s face was warm, the type of warm that is usually reserved for our friends, or those that we’ve shared a secret or two with.  She went away, taking her warmth with her, and Anis was almost sad to see her go.  

A hand jutted into her line of sight.

The sounds and smells of the diner were all that really registered. She stared at the hand for a moment, disoriented.  The double stacked pancakes were really getting to her. 

She looked up into green eyes.  It was the tall man.  

[quote]"You're not from around here, are you?" He smiled a little. "I like to think I've got a pretty good handle of the patrons here, and you're not a regular, far as I can tell." [/quote]
She smiled her mother’s smile and grasped his hand for a few shakes, “no, I’m not. I’m Anis, from Philadelphia.”

[quote] "I'm Thomas. Thomas McClellan."  [/quote]
“A sharp eye, but also not too hard to tell, no?” She laughed as they released hands. "I’ve been here for a week, but I'm going westward. But what about you? You’ve lived here for a long time or—?”

Her energy was rekindling; the coffee and pancakes and eggs and greasy things working their magic, and a wave of journalistic energy washed over her.  She considered this her superpower: anything which promised a story—which was everything, but some things stuck out like beacons and she trusted her journalistic sense—she wholly attuned herself to.