Always with the morning hours and the coffee, Penny shoulders her way in past suits and skirts, a halo of truly toxic smoke wreaths - meant to keep others away. Does it's job, that and the the withering half-lidded, puffy-eyed squint clears her a path toward the back. Between little chairs and little tables meant for little conversation, Penny looms - some gigantic figured cut from a different picture and pasted in at odd angles. Her hand flattens on someone's stray tabloid and drags it off the table toward Alyx's sofa, crusts of sugar and drink-stirs falling behind her. "Shove over, hey?"