We married six months later.
When Dunn passed 23 years ago, this spot kept me grounded. Being here feels like he’s still at table seven, giving me that little wink over his cup.
The owner is good to me, and the regulars always want my section.
I’m not as quick as the young servers, but I remember every order, never drop a thing, and treat every person like they’re eating at my own kitchen table.
Most folks value that.
But last Friday, I met one who didn’t.
It was the busy lunch hour. Every seat taken. The kitchen was hectic.
A young woman walked in, phone already filming her face, talking to it like we were all just props.
She sat in my area.
I brought her water with a smile.
“Welcome to our little diner, ma’am. What can I get started for you?”
She hardly looked up, still speaking to her phone.
“Hey y’all, it’s Madge! At this adorable old-fashioned diner. We’ll see how the service is.”
So her name was Madge.
She finally glanced at me. “Chicken Caesar salad. No croutons. Extra dressing. Chicken warm, not hot—I don’t want to burn my mouth on video.”
I wrote it down and smiled.
“Got it. Anything else to drink besides water?”
“Iced tea. Sweet only. No fake sugar.”
“It’s freshly made. You’ll like it.”
She went back to her phone without answering.
I brought the tea.
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