Vernon Milton Boyd IV has never really been one for talking. He likes the quiet, likes actually being able to hear his own thoughts. Of course, there’s some times he wishes he was better with his words.
“One slice of cherry pie,” the cute waitress announces, setting his plate down with a wide smile.
She winks at him, but Boyd can’t manage more than a soft, “Thanks,” in return.
“We have other types, you know,” she says, throwing Boyd off guard, still standing there in front of his table.
“Types?” Boyd asks, frowning.
“Of pie,” she replies, red painted lips quirking up into a smile again. “Blueberry, pecan, peach, French silk.”
“I like cherry,” Boyd answers simply.
“Clearly,” the waitress snorts, deciding to plop herself down in the booth opposite him. “But you’re in here at least twice a week and you always get the same thing.”
Boyd’s not entirely sure how to tell her that’s not exactly because of the pie. Instead he just shrugs.