vagabond ; mc

one ;

Dahlia Jones had never left her home state. She was pleasantly happy staying close to her home, never straying too far from the coastal town. She loved the ocean, the smooth breeze and the soft calls of the sea gulls. Dahlia always thought it was her own little slice of paradise, and she didn't have to search the world for it.

She couldn't understand why some of her peers that she graduated with picked up and left home the moment they finished school. Did they not see the beauty of the town as she did? She could never imagine herself leaving the embrace of the ocean.

She grew up here. It was familiar. She knew exactly how many fudge shops lined main street (twelve, which she did admit was a lot for the small town,) she knew all the back roads to avoid traffic in town, and she knew mostly everyone that lived there. It was her home, and it always would be.

Dahlia swept her dark hair over her shoulder, the ends of tickling the space between her shoulder blades. It was a warm day, like it usually was, but the sun wasn't nearly as hot as it had been the past few days. She squinted through her sunglasses, glancing across the street to the people who were already out and about.

The sun had only been up for an hour or two, but most of the town was already awake and bustling. She waved to Mrs. Anderson, the owner of the flower shop, who was setting out the morning flowers on the sidewalk in front of the store.

Dahlia walked a little farther, spotting the diner up ahead. Her shift didn't start for another ten minutes, but she never minded showing up a bit early. She pushed open the door, the frosty air conditioning washing over her skin as she walked inside.

The counter was already lined with patrons, the scent of hot coffee wafting through the air, and the sound of silverware against the plates. Dahlia had always loved working at the diner. She had started there as a summer job in the summer of her junior year, but she had stayed even after she graduated. She didn't work every day, but it was still enough to pay her rent and bills.

She greeted some of the regulars, stashing her stuff beneath the counter before disappearing into the kitchen. "Hi, Don," she smiled, waving to the cook. He was an older gentleman, his gray hair thinning, which he attempted to hide beneath the white paper hat he wore everyday.

He was the one who offered her the job. He wasn't the owner, but he was the closest thing to it. "Morning, Dahlia!" He smiled, wiping his forehead free of sweat. He was cooking a large batch of scrambled eggs, the steam swirling around him. "How's your day been so far?" He asked.

Dahlia shrugged, grabbing one of the aprons that hung on the hook near the back entrance. She slipped it over her head as she turned back to Don. "Same as usual. Yours?" She returned, leaning forward onto one of the tables and watched him work the eggs with a spatula.

"Same as usual," he quoted, shooting her a sly grin. "Now go on and get working."

Dahlia straightened out, saluting Don before walking back out to the diner. Working here felt easy, like she wasn't meant to work anywhere else. She grabbed a check booklet and pen before setting out to her first table.

When she was on her feet, time seemed to go by fast. She knew most of her customers, and their orders by heart. Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins rolled in at around eight-thirty, followed by Myles Broker at nine. It wasn't until it was nearly noon that she found herself behind the counter, untying her apron.

"Time for break?" Charlotte asked. Charlotte was head waitress, usually manning the counter and brewing all the morning's coffee. She was also married to Don, the two of them running the diner together.