Today, I messed up. Badly. I woke up in a sour mood, the kind that sticks to you like grease on a diner counter. My coworkers at the restaurant weren’t helping—bickering over tips and spilling coffee like it’s an Olympic sport. I was already on edge when the first customer walked in, a guy with tired eyes and a rumpled jacket, clutching a takeout order slip like it was his lifeline.
I don’t know why I snapped. Maybe it was the way he mumbled his order, or maybe I just needed someone to take my frustration out on. “Just go straight to the kitchen and figure it out yourself,” I barked, shoving his slip back at him. My coworker, bless him, tried to smooth things over. She asked him a few questions, scribbled his name on a napkin, and told him to wait by the counter. But I didn’t care—I’d already written him off.
Then he walked in. A man with a pressed suit and an air of quiet confidence. I didn’t realize it at first, but he was from the Chu family—the Chu family, the kind of wealthy dynasty that owns half the city and tips in crisp hundred-dollar bills. Suddenly, I was all smiles. “Good afternoon, sir! Can I take your name? I’ll jot it down on this little napkin—your order will be ready soon, just swing by later!” I practically sang it, hovering over him like he was royalty. He nodded, barely glancing at me, and I felt smug—like I’d won something.
Meanwhile, the first guy? My coworker left him sitting there, awkwardly perched on a stool by the pickup counter. No one checked on him. No one offered him a water or a “sorry for the wait.” I didn’t even look his way. Eventually, he just… left. Slipped out the door with his head down, his order still unmade. I don’t know if he was hungry, frustrated, or humiliated. Maybe all three. But I didn’t care until it hit me later.
The rest of the shift, I kept glancing at the door, hoping he’d come back. Praying I’d get a chance to make it right—bring him a hot plate of fries, apologize, something. But 5 PM rolled around, the neon “Open” sign flickered off, and he never showed. Now, I’m sitting here, replaying it in my head. I treated him like trash because he didn’t look important, and I rolled out the red carpet for some rich guy because I knew his last name. What kind of person does that make me?
I can’t stop thinking about his face—those tired eyes. Did he skip lunch because of me? Was he already having a rough day? I was so damn insensitive, and I hate myself for it. I’ve worked food service long enough to know better. Everyone deserves a meal, a kind word, a little dignity. But today, I forgot that. And now, I can’t sleep. Damn it.
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