Lunch rush was hell for the new girl, stacking foamed cappuccino cups and stirring spoons in a broken-handled bus tub while trying not to slip on soft ice and discarded lemon wedges. She took our mugs, and told us about a guy
—Dave, she said. I don't know.—who sat with his friend, comparing *** to work over the rusted cabinet tracks of his warped fork scraping his egg-caked plate. Dave's friend was leaned in with a cocked grin waiting for one of Dave's "Classic Dave" punchlines,
which I'm guessing are all witty, the funniest ******* things you've ever heard, but there wasn't one this time
because there's nothing funny about a ***** intern cringing beneath the weight of fat Dave and his brick paperweight jammed in her back.