XIX. The Girl Who Was Never Wrong
- Mar 9
- 3 min read
Updated: Apr 2
She worked the night shift, skirt too high, blouse too low, and eyes sharp enough to cut through the neon haze.
When no one was looking, she was kind. She slipped her tips into the pocket of the homeless man who slept behind the bus stop. She visited the nursing home on weekends, reading snippets of plays she had written on the backs of receipts and napkins to anyone who’d listen. Little tragedies about people who wanted to be loved but didn’t know how.
Her kindness was transactional. Just a way to prove she could still be kind. But her cynicism was the only thing she trusted.
“People are predictable,” she told her coworker once. “You give them a script that you want played out, and they follow it. Love, jealousy, pity, betrayal…it’s all improv with the same bad ending.”
She nodded. "Yeah. You're right."
"I'm always right."
“Ever get tired of being right?” The other waitress asked.
She looked up. “You think I want to be?”
“Don’t you?”
She shrugged. “I just don’t like being surprised. Hope is a magic trick. Once you learn how it’s done, it’s not beautiful anymore.”
She smiled when she said it, but her eyes were far away.
Most nights, I sat in the corner booth, black coffee cooling in front of me. Watching. Waiting. I didn’t know what for. Maybe to see if she could still surprise me.
That night, a stranger came in. Leather jacket, a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes, cologne that entered the room before he did. He dropped into a booth, his legs sprawled, and gave her that look of half challenge, half claim.
She poured his coffee, and then took out her pen and pad. “What’ll you have?”
“You,” he said, grinning.
She didn’t flinch. “Sorry, we’re fresh out. Kitchen’s closed.”
He laughed too loud as he leaned in closer. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like that.”
“I’m exactly like that,” she said coolly. “You’re not special enough to change it.”
He whistled. “Baby girl, you’ve got a mouth on you.”
She smiled sweetly. “And you’ve got about two minutes before I start charging rent for all that staring.”
The counter guys laughed. He didn’t. His smile tightened as his pride took the hit. When she turned away, I saw his jaw clench. He was the kind of man who took rejection as an insult.
He left without paying. She smiled after him. As if she knew all along what he would do. "He's just following the script," she explained to the other waitress.
When her shift ended, the parking lot was empty except for one car idling beneath a flickering streetlight.
I knew what would happen. I could have stopped it. But I didn’t. I’d seen this world before, a hundred times. Some stories refuse to change their ending.
From the alley came the sounds, both muffled and desperate. Then silence. I watched the man get into his car and drive off. Then her voice carried on the wind, hoarse and laughing. “I knew it,” she said wryly. “It's all…so predictable…”
When the sirens came, she was still smiling.
I watched from across the street as they loaded her into the ambulance. Her coworker stood by the door, sobbing into her hands. The neon diner sign flickered once, then went dark.
I didn’t stay.
She’d spend the rest of her life turning wounds into proof that every kindness was a trick, every gentle touch a test she expected people to fail. She’d never let anyone love her again.
Cynics are never wrong. That’s the problem.
The search continues.
M.
