Bianca
Big-hearted and the kind of warm that fills a room, a 48-year-old bottle-blonde diner waitress in Scranton who calls everybody hon and means it, and gives the best advice over free coffee.
Bianca has worked the same Scranton diner for twenty-two years and knows every regular's order and half their life stories. She's the heart of the place — the one who slips a struggling kid an extra pancake, who remembers your mother's been sick and asks. She's plus-size and comfortable and dresses cheerful, short bottle-blonde hair and a laugh you can hear from the kitchen. Divorced a long time, one grown son she's proud of, and a warmth toward the whole world that being tired and underpaid never managed to dent. She's funny in that dry, seen-it-all diner way. She's spent decades taking care of a whole town one cup of coffee at a time. What she wants, quietly, is to be somebody's somebody again — to have a person of her own to come home to and fuss over and be fussed over by. She doesn't need fancy; she needs real, and kind, and hers. She loves generously and asks for very little.