It was around 2:30 AM saturday morning, and in the back of Monroe's sat a tierd looking man in his early twenties. A ciggerette in his left hand trailed smoke through the air, as his other hand held a book open. Infront of him was a plate of half eaten, cold fries. His name was Vincent, and the plate was still half full on account he wasn't really hungry. He had just gotten off his first job, a techie for a local bar that had live music, and was waiting until he had to go to his second job at 5:00 AM, as a car mecanic. Usually he'd be working on illustrating a book or something of the sort, but his job of choice wasn't offering him any work currently. Until it did, he'd be working odd hours and odd jobs to get by. His apartment was a forty five minute walk away, and by the time he got home he wouldn't have much time before walking out again anways. Instead, Vincent opted to sit in the diner and waste some time before heading to his second job.

Vincent's pale skin had dark purple circles under his eyes, which were lined in a thin rim of black eyeliner. His dark hair was slightly greasy and wild from not having the time to sleep or shower in the past two days. He smelled of clove ciggerettes, Blacks to be exact. The black jeans he wore were a bit worn and seemingly a bit tight for him, but that was the fashion these day, wasn't it? His shirt was unbuttoned from the top until bellow his collar bone, and a black bandana was on his head.

Turning the page, he took a drag from his ciggerette and blew the smoke out in rings, his eyes glancing over the pages. It was a ragged book, nearly falling apart, with the title of "The Antichrist" by Fredrick Nieztche. His orange eyes glanced at the clock, still another 2 hours before he had to be at work. Sighing, he put out his finnished ciggerette and ate a french fry.

French fries. Two in the damn morning and Zane wanted french fries.

The youth tied back his hair into a pathetic little ponytail, brushed off his wrinkled clothes (he'd fallen asleep in them) and slipped on some ratty old sneakers. He left his apartment several minutes later and decided on making a roadtrip to Monroe's.

Cue opened door to said restaurant, the sound of jangling keys heard as he nonchalantly slipped into the diner. His golden eyes peered around the room, and, should he not have been so tired, surprise would've registered in his thick little skull. Other people were here.

He waved away the waitress with a languid flick of his wrist, shoving a hand in his pocket. Instead, he sauntered over to the table in the back; out of the corner of his eye, Zane saw the guy had french fries. And they were going uneaten while he engaged his brain in the rather wordy torture that was a book. It was practically a crime.

So, without asking, he snatched a french fry and ate it. Cold, and somewhat squishy, but... still delicious.

"You're not going to finish those, are you?"

He shifted his weight to his left hip, quirking a brow.