Weeknight diner, my phone my only friend
the surrounding conversations my best entertainment.

Behind me
a high school table entertains themselves
while an unimpressed waitress serves.

The table’s energy vibrates,
even as sound.
They shout.
They scheme.
They talk about Friday night
about Christmas break
about Summer
about Steve
about Senior year
about so much more.

Eventually, the youth leave.
They leave a mess.
Before anyone can clean it away,
I scoot to their table
to check a theory.
After all the work they’ve put Babette through,
have the kids tipped her appropriately?
Have they paid at all?
I must know.

I scour the table for the bill
and the payment.
What have they given?

They have given a great deal.
Are these trust fund kids?
Good God, that’s a tip!

And now Babette is looking at me
as if I am trying to take her money.
“This is…
this is not how it looks.”