The chatter is almost infuriating. It’s nothing new, but tonight, it’s nails down a chalkboard. Nearly every table is full, and the new girl, Lucy or Layla, I can’t remember with all this noise right now, is fumbling orders left and right, but she’s cute, and the men at the counter don’t seem to mind all that much. She could probably spill coffee on their laps, and they’d ask her if she was all right or not. How she managed to find her way here is anyone’s guess, but I’m willing to bet she’s hiding from a man who is still out looking for what he believes to be his property.

I doubt this night is going to get any better. I’m already frustrated that I burnt my arm earlier from the steam of the kettle boiling for someone’s cup of tea. That order alone was enough to tick me off. Who the hell orders tea in a place like this? It’s a coffee and greasy food kind of spot, and pinkies out are not even close to what we see stumbling through the door. Though tonight is more of a mishmash of late-night diners than we usually see. The normal drunks are around, and the truckers are in and out as always, but there’s more than a few random patrons taking up space.

Extra two- and four-tops are nice to have to fill up the joint, but expectations are never met to anyone’s satisfaction, and a couple of warm bodies don’t equate to healthier tips. Usually, it turns into a handful of complaints and a buck or two after kissing their ass for an hour. Just as I turn to grab the change off the table from one such couple, another one walks in looking lost in more ways than one. There’s some kind of revolving door out on the highway tonight, and I’d like them to close it before this place starts to look inviting. I’ve been doing this too long to try and get comfortable with it becoming a reputable establishment. I don’t have the bandwidth to tolerate suburban life infiltrating my side of the highway.

I head over to the table they’re slipping into the booth of, just in time to hear him yell in her direction that he doesn’t like that spot and wants to move to the counter. Her face is covered in confusion, and he yells over the whole diner this time, and she starts nodding her head and slipping out of the booth with her jacket half off, trying to hurry so he’ll quiet down before finishing his sentence. She’s obviously dealt with it before and is no stranger to this man yelling at her throughout life; rather than turn up the hearing aids I can plainly see in his ears. Chances are they’re dead, and he hasn’t figured it out yet, but you can bet your ass she has.  

Siding up to the counter to take their louder-than-necessary order, because believe it or not, the cooks don’t need to hear what you want firsthand; that’s kind of my job to relay such information, but here we are. I can hear the cook snorting behind me, and his wife groaning with her face pressed down into her hands, wishing she could suddenly disappear. You almost feel bad for her, but I don’t. She’s obviously been in this situation numerous times, and I’m sure there have been many more embarrassing moments over the decades, and she’s still there sitting next to him. That wouldn’t be me. Someone so selfish deserves their own company until they’re as sick of themselves as I am. And if he doesn’t pipe down, I’m going to lock him in the bathroom until he realizes he can’t hear himself banging on the door to be set free and figures out he might be the problem.

It’s not the first time I’ve had this customer, but they’re usually alone, as they likely should be. Barking his order of bacon and eggs in my direction only adds to my frustration, but watching the newbie flinch at his yelling only confirms my previous observations. I’m sure that’ll be an interesting night when that ‘man’ she ran from decides to show up here and act all ‘manly’. I’m looking forward to that one. He wouldn’t be the first, and he definitely won’t be the last, just like this old annoying jackass. Lucky me.

I grab the coffee pot after dropping off the order I know damn well the cook has already started working on because everyone in here knew what that man ordered, but killing trees is part of the job, and I dropped it onto the pass-through anyway. I top off the half-empty cups around the diner and walk up to the man in the corner booth studying the menu. Flipping over his cup, I start to fill it for him. I go through my spiel of the whole ‘Hi. How are you? What would you like?’ bit, barely looking at him and scanning the diner instead for anything I need to deal with once I walk away. He was just another man until he spoke, and my blood ran cold. I knew that voice, and in an instant, that night nearly twenty years ago hit me like a ton of bricks.

The shock of it held me in place, drowning in memories of him and how he changed my life and how I lived it from that moment on. Fear and determination became the catalyst for what launched me into something new. The fear was short-lived, but he changed how I witnessed life and assessed it. As I stood there, the muscle memory of my life here in this diner for the last several years took over while my brain flipped through files of memories that had been packed away for decades, only accessed in those moments when I thought of all the things I had done wrong that night that led me to become so vulnerable. I didn’t like living in those moments, but they were a learning experience, and they helped me to never be in that situation again.

There had been a long list of men who had made an impression on me throughout my life, but this one lived in the corner just out of view and always felt like a reminder of what I’d long decided was my failure. I’m sure therapy would have helped me to come to some other conclusion, but the thought of explaining that night to anyone filled me with crippling embarrassment. I could never, nor would I. I had managed on my own all this time, and I planned to continue doing exactly that.

I knew I was smiling enough, one of those things I had learned to mimic when I didn’t feel like smiling, and somehow asked him if he knew what he wanted to order. I had to give my brain enough time to relive that night before landing back on my feet and standing at the edge of his table. I waited for him to recognize me and make a scene, but he looked right at me, never seeing me. Not even a hint of that night registered behind his eyes, and I fight back the urge to shake him. How dare he not remember me after what he did to me that night? After how he changed me in mere minutes. How dare he!

I’d rip him out of the booth if I thought I’d get the satisfaction I now desperately needed of him remembering me. It would do no good. I’d rather that moment when he finally remembers who I am drags him back in time as quickly as it transported me back twenty years ago and into that car there on the edge of the woods. The cook slams his hand down on the bell repeatedly, snapping me back to the diner. I’m writing down whatever it is he’s ordering as I stand there on autopilot. I tap my pen on the pad and toss a quick, ‘you got it’ over my shoulder as I walk over to the pass-through and drop off his order, picking up the hard-of-hearing idiot’s food in the process.

I’m not easily distracted, but every single person in this diner is a distraction, except him. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this focused, and I need everyone else to disappear right now. Him not recognizing me is harder to swallow in this moment than remembering that night is. Was it just another night for him? Have I changed that much? Surely not. He hasn’t, and it only took one word from his mouth for me to know exactly who he was. My jaw tightens, and I can feel my teeth grinding to nubs at the thought of being unforgettable after that night. I suppose I should be grateful he’s forgotten me, but I’m not. I’m angry as hell. I should have been unforgettable; he sure as hell wasn’t someone I could ever forget.

I can feel my mind swirling like a tornado, and it’s just as hungry for retribution and destruction. I can’t let him just leave here unmolested and free, can I? Maybe I’m remembering it all wrong, and he’s only triggered a memory where he has no involvement. I know it’s a lie the second I think it. I’m not wrong because I could never forget the sound of his voice or his face. I walk over with the pot of coffee, a waitress’s constant excuse to interrupt you, and reach for his cup, the deep scar on my wrist exposed, and I catch him looking at it. His face changes, and I can almost see the past park behind his eyes right then, and I finally feel seen.

He looks up at my face, and fear latches on like a shadow, and I smile at him in return. Not a smile of acknowledgement, but the standard one I use every night while in this diner. He should have to squirm at the realization of who I am even more than I did the moment I recognized his voice. His fear makes me feel vindicated, and it’s earned after reliving that memory I know is swirling around in his head. His body and mind fighting over whether he should stay or go. His eyes are searching for any recollection, but I’m just another waitress in a diner in the middle of nowhere. I’m sure he’s hoping I don’t remember him, but that hope is a lost cause. I’ll never forget him. He was supposed to be my first, after all.

I walk off as if he is everyone else that has ever sat in that booth, and toss a quick, “I’ll be right back” over my shoulder. They’re the last words I said to him before the screaming began. I can hear it ringing in my ears now, and I’m sure he can too, as I see him move uncomfortably in his seat, looking around for anyone else who might be familiar. It’s a diner full of strangers, except for him and me, and he knows it.

I can breathe a little easier now knowing he’s recognized me. I feel more myself than I did before, and I can feel his eyes on me, watching every move I make. If I were him, I’d be worried about my food, too. I am about to serve him dinner, but he can’t think I’d do anything to him here in a crowded diner. He can’t even be sure I know who he is, or that I remember that night either. All he knows right now is fear. I’m sure of it. I can see it surrounding him, to the point I can almost smell it.

I can think of a thousand different ways to get my revenge, and they’re being tallied up on a list now as I look down at his plate there sitting in the pass-through. It’s not like I just carry poison in my pocket waiting for him to show up one day twenty years later. However, I should have considered it before now. Especially as often as I think of him and that night. Though that possibility is now on the list my brain is compiling in real time. I’m sure there’s something around here I could use, but not without him or anyone else noticing. Besides, I’m enjoying watching him squirm in that booth trying to figure out if I know who he is or not. It’s honestly more satisfying than I imagined it could be.

I walk over with his plate in hand and set it down with a smile. He stammers out a ‘thank you’ as I walk away and back to work as if he doesn’t matter. Nothing could be further from the truth. That night everything changed, and I am owed restitution. I giggle a bit under my breath as I watch him inspect his plate and everything on it and turn to answer some question the new girl needs an answer to. Some asshole decided he was going to try and order in some arcane diner lingo to impress the girl with him, and Lucy here (I think that’s her name) didn’t understand a word of it. Talk about the right time for a little poison. I translate it for her, and I don’t think she’s any less confused now than she was when he was ordering some hen fruit like a moron. I’m sure his date is thoroughly impressed, though.

I make my rounds and notice he’s about done. He may have set a record clearing his plate. I grab a glass of water and throw on another one of those smiles people tend to like, but I’m positive it’s making him uncomfortable, and set it down in front of him. He stops long enough to look up at me, that fear still behind his eyes and squeaks out another ‘thank you’ before finishing up and reaching for his wallet. His eyes are focused on mine, still trying to determine if I know his face or not as I drop the check and walk away. The fear is pouring out of him now, and his feet are itching to run out the door and as far away from me as he can possibly get. He tosses a couple of bills onto the table, downs the glass of water, and nearly sprints out the front door. I imagine that meals is going to result in heartburn for more than one reason at some point. It’s not payback enough, but he’ll get his. I just know it. Memories of me will definitely be haunting him tonight. I can guarantee it.

I rub the scar on the inside of my arm as I watch him jump into the front seat of his car. He’s not as quick to get out of the parking lot as he thought he’d be, and I push him to the back of my mind for now until I can finish this shift and focus on him and that night again. I wonder if he remembers how it felt stabbing that knife into my arm? I wasn’t expecting him to get the knife before me. I’m the idiot for dropping it in the first place. I was shocked more than anything, and he ran from my car almost as fast as he’d fled this diner.

I finish up my shift and walk out the door a different person than I was when the night started. Lighter, and almost happy. It’s an emotion I’m not used to, but I can feel the smile spreading across my face. It takes a minute to get settled into the car. It’s not easy moving a grown man into the passenger seat when he’s knocked out like this, but I managed. Funny how dragging bags of trash out to the dumpster every night builds up muscle.

I’m more determined than ever to feel free from that night twenty years ago, and I smile again at that thought. It’s not every day you’re gifted with a second chance to get it right. Smiling over at the seat next to me, I can see his eyes trying to open. I want him to see me. I want him to try and break free to get away. He can try all he wants. I made that mistake once and let him escape me. I was a cocky little fool and thought I knew what I was doing. I missed the knife there, just close enough for him to grab. That scar has been a constant reminder of my mistake. One I won’t make again. We pull up to the garage, and his eyes widen as the reality of me here with him throws him into fight mode. Good luck with that. And as I get out of the car, I look at him and smile, picking up right where we left off twenty years ago… “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”