Common Ancestor Cafe

What do you do when you fail so hard as a writer that you can't even finish one lousy novel? Obviously, you write a random scene from a future novel in a series that you haven't even completed book one of. I give you a taste of volume three, with Trent (a hybrid wereanimal) and Arlette (a de-winged harpy once exploited in research and the sex trade) going out to eat at a cafe!

___Common Ancestor Cafe was a squat and inobtrusive brick building huddled nervously between two larger structures bearing a more sleek and modernized look. The owners had long ago given up on embellishing the storefront with the flowers, lanterns, or similar niceties donned by other businesses on the block, as these were inevitably vandalized. The buildings' walls themselves were a hodge-podge of graffitti, all colors and styles, some fresh and some faded. The one theme unifying the scrawlings was that they all reflected hate messages: Humans first! Death to vamp parasites! The only good therian is a dead therian! and so forth.
___Outside, despite the best efforts to keep it clean, the sidewalk seemed to sparkle with what was, upon close inspection, a large ammount of tiny glass shards crushed into the concrete and between its cracks. This was typical of inclusion facilities. Bricks, rocks, and on one occasion the disembodied head of a murdered werewolf had shattered the Common Ancestor's windows so many times that no ammount of sweeping could remove all of the glass. It was a miracle the place hadn't been burned to the ground yet, really, but with the current backlash against the Hominid Rights movement it was bound to happen in the imminent future. All the more reason to enjoy it while it lasted.
___As I coaxed Arlette towards the entrance of the cafe, the corners of her yellow lips drooped downwards - much like her feirce golden eyes, which were cast to the ground as though submitting to the prejudice staring her in the face. Her hand tightened around mine as an insecure reflex, the tips of her talons dimpling my flesh. I hated seeing her this way; witnessing such a magnificent predator driven to despair was the same sort of tradgedy as watching a lion circle in a cage. I pulled her closer in comfort, the hot line of her arm against mine coarse and scaled where it met my wrist, silk smooth at my shoulder.
___On the door hung the customary warnings and disclaimers demanded by law at such a facility. On a red background with prominent white lettering, sans serif, was the warning: "Caution: This is a preternatural inclusion facility." Another, white with "NOTICE" in bold red and black print scrawled below cautioned: "Under section 403 of the 2001 Preternatural Hominids Act, this facility is licensed to provide services to non-humans. Human patrons should be advised that they will be sharing facilities with potentially infectious, predatory, or supernatural entities at their own risk." Finally, a copy of the public health code regarding the preparation and serving of food by non-humans to humans (strictly prohibited) was also posted. The owners of the store, in a feeble attempt at mirth, had posted their own sign: "If you're sentient and can pay the bill, welcome!"