Every Tuesday and Thursday after that, she arrived at exactly the same time.
First booth by the window.
Black coffee.
Half a waffle.
Extra butter.
The first time I waited on her, she squinted at my nametag.
“James,” she said. “You look exhausted enough to collapse face-first into my breakfast.”
“Long week.”
She snorted.
“Try being eighty-five.”
That was our beginning.
After that, she always requested my section.
She was sharp-tongued, stubborn, and impossible in ways that somehow became funny once you adjusted to them.
One morning she frowned at my face.
“You ever smile, son?”
“Sometimes.”
