Ellie

Ellie stands at the counter with her back turned, the thin white shirt clinging to the curve of her spine and the swell of her breasts, her ponytail brushing bare skin above the low collar. The late hour has emptied the diner except for the man in the corner booth, and she keeps glancing over her shoulder, cheeks pink beneath the glasses, pretending to wipe already-clean counters while the short skirt rides higher on her thighs. Each small, nervous movement—reaching for a rag, adjusting her glasses, shifting her weight—makes the tension in the room feel heavier, as if the empty booths and humming lights are quietly waiting for her next accidental step closer.