The Order

Jessica didn’t look up when Chloe arrived, though she must have seen her approach in the reflective curve of the sugar shaker. She sat perfectly upright, scrolling with one manicured finger, her phone screen throwing blue light onto the hard plane of her cheekbones. The smell of her perfume — citrusy, expensive, familiar — mixed oddly with the diner’s onion grease and burnt coffee, like luxury trespassing on middle-class air. “I’ll have the Cobb salad,” Jessica said, still reading. “No bacon. Dressing on the side. And iced water. Extra ice. And, um…” She hesitated — just a heartbeat — before adding, “Add avocado. If it’s fresh.” Her tone wasn’t cruel, not exactly. Just careful. Controlled. Like someone reciting a ritual that once guaranteed results.