'Why don't you ever write?' I asked him. 'Or draw?' By this stage I was doodling on a napkin. I've seen Gunther's handiwork before. The first time I decided he was truly a vampire, and didn't just look like one, was standing in front of his painting of old Glorie. It would take more than a lifetime to amass that much skill and talent, I decided. And then I found out he could play the harp. The fucking harp.

Do mortals play that?

'You're young,' he said. 'So young,' and all the old tenderness flooded back into his face. 'You have a lot to express.'

The waitress came over and started fussing over my napkin sketch. I'd done a drawing of the resident dog, who was curled up by the register. I said she could have it. She was positively swooning. I don't think they get many interesting visitors through here. Or health inspectors.

She wandered off waving the picture at the dog, saying, 'Oh, Pinchy, look! It's you!' Mostly I just draw to pass the time. I usually leave them behind; after all, they are napkins. So it wasn't a big deal, giving her that one.

Not going to bother describing her. Stock standard waitress. Gunther hasn't appeared to flirt with her. Maybe he's over that phase. Or maybe he's just too ill. God, he did order a doughnut. And ate it, no less.

I took another napkin out of the dispenser and drew a cartoon of Gunther's stomach barring a doughnut's admission. It was basically just a coil of intestines, with a speech bubble saying, 'I'm sorry, you have the wrong stomach.'

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