The complaints started before they even ordered
Before they opened the menus, Mrs. Thompson sniffed. “Why is it so dim in here? Do you want us to eat in the dark?”
I turned on the table light. “Does this help?”
“Don’t get cute,” she snapped. “And make sure my glass is spotless. I don’t want lipstick marks from some stranger.”
Mr. Thompson flipped through the menu like it personally offended him.
“What kind of place doesn’t have lobster bisque on a Friday night?”
“We’ve never served lobster bisque, sir,” I said, steady. “But our clam chowder is popular.”
He waved me off. “Just bring bread. Warm.”
Then the snapping started. Fingers in the air like I was a dog they were training.
Refills before glasses were half empty. Napkins like I was a magician pulling them from thin air. Side comments loud enough for nearby tables to hear.
“Is this what passes for service these days?” Mr. Thompson boomed, sending his steak back because it was “overcooked.”
Mrs. Thompson shoved her soup toward me. “Too salty.”
The teens stayed silent, scrolling, but their faces said it all: bored, smug, untouchable.
By dessert, my smile felt stapled on.
But when I cleared the plates, I thought: Finally. Done.
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