My name is Esther. I am seventy-two years old, and I have been a waitress at the same little diner in a small Texas town for more than twenty years. Long enough to know which regulars want their bacon extra crispy and which ones pretend to read the menu even though they’ve ordered the same thing every Tuesday since 1999. Long enough to recognize the sound of a truck pulling into the gravel lot by the way it crunches the stones. Long enough to feel the rhythm of the place in my bones, like a second heartbeat. Most people who come through our doors are decent. Some are in a hurry, some are tired, some haven’t had their coffee yet and shouldn’t be spoken to until they do.
But almost everyone, no matter their mood, treats me with a basic level of respect. That’s just how it’s always been. Until last Friday. I still move with purpose when I’m on the floor, even if my knees complain a little more than they used to. I don’t rush, but I don’t dawdle either. I remember orders, I refill drinks before they’re empty, and I notice when someone looks like they’re having a hard day.
