Short Story: A Plastic Surgeon, A Diner and A Star

With unfocused eyes, Franklin stared down at the puce-coloured envelope on the Formica table. Behind him the neon sign of The Greasy Spoon intermittently buzzed to life, reflecting on the chrome napkin-holder to his left. He had his back to the room -- fewer people with whom to make eye-contact -- but took note of the noises that illustrated the other diners to him. He hoped the slurper behind him, who he supposed was a rotund truck driver, complete with a sweaty check shirt, stained jeans, branded baseball cap and toothpick, would leave soon. So far, it seemed, neither the slurper nor the envelope was going anywhere.