Late every night.
Early every morning.
Always a line.
Always someone screaming.
Always someone hungry.
Always someone impatient.
I smelled her rush past, exhaling smoke.
Marlboro.
Noticed her cough into her cupped palm.
Saw her pull her greasy hair gray and black hair back into a ponytail.
With both hands.
She donned a black hat with yellow letters.
But I forgot this entire scene later when I ate her delicious, cooked to order food.
Now behind the counter, she made a confident statement….
“Welcome to Waffle House, can I take your order?”
