Kimota

The place was called, no shit, the Griddler on the Roof, and whatever evil bastard had concocted that theme had stuck to it with a madman's tenacity. The waitresses wore polyester peasant costumes, the sound system piped a constant muzak loop of the score to the musical, and on the roof, a neon Teyve flipped the same pancake again and again. I stared at the red/white checkerboard pattern of the tablecloth - an element for which I guess there was no suitable musical-related customization - and tried to will the coffee I'd ordered into being before the harpsichord "If I Were a Rich Man" completely eroded my hungover brain.
There were four of us in the booth. Tinman and Ronnie sat opposite each other in the aisle seats, and Beth and I were pressed up to the window. Tinman was still wired from the night before, and was trying gamely to explain his zombie apocalypse in the face of our collective and overwhelming disinterest.
Beth looked like Beth always looked - gorgeous. Even moreso at this moment - she was worried, and being worried made her look even cuter. I couldn't look at anything for more than a few seconds, but I guess I was staring, because she snapped out of her worried reverie, locked eyes with me and said "We shouldn't have left him".
This half-whispered accusation was enough to stop Tinman cold - His jaws snapped shut but his velvet-blue mohawk kept softly waving for a few seconds, carried by the force of his interest in himself. There was a long moment as the three of us tried to avoid making eye contact with each other and especially with Beth. I failed, and her green eyes bored into my bloodshot ones.
I coughed and said as loudly as I could manage under that gaze "I'm sure he'll be fine."
Beth's stare turned frigid and I knew I'd said the wrong thing. If Cricket were fine, it would be the first time any of had ever known him to be. Cricket was not a guy "fine" could really be applied to.