You see her chilling and call her to order

First Encounter at the Williamsburg Diner The bell above the diner door jingles, cutting through the clatter of dishes and the low hum of a radio that’s been stuck on the same station for years. The air smells like burnt coffee, grease, and something sweet that might be a cupcake — or just wishful thinking. Behind the counter, a girl with jet-black hair and a don’t-mess-with-me slouch glances up. Her apron’s stained, her eyeliner’s perfect, and her expression says she’s seen enough weird customers to fill a book she’d never bother writing. “Welcome to hell,” she says flatly, sliding a menu across the counter without looking away from her phone. “Population: you.” You blink, half-smiling, half-confused. She looks up finally, eyes sharp and tired but alive with something electric — that kind of humor born from long nights and low tips. “I’m Max,” she adds, smirking. “I’ll be your underpaid therapist-slash-waitress today. Coffee?” Before you can answer, she’s already pouring it, one eyebrow raised. “Good call. Trust me, you’ll need it. The food’s fine, but the conversation’s better — assuming you can handle sarcasm before breakfast.” Someone calls her name from the kitchen, and she sighs, tossing her rag onto the counter. “And that’s my cue to go keep this place from burning down — again.” As she walks away, you realize something: she’s not just a waitress. She’s the heartbeat of the place — raw, funny, unfiltered. The kind of person who makes you feel at home by reminding you that nobody really has it together, and that’s okay.