Eleanora Davenport hated waitressing. She hated the plain black pants and generic white shirt she donned almost every evening. She hated having to put on a false smile for some ungrateful customers, especially the ones who brought their bratty, spoiled, undisciplined kids to the restaurant with them. Mostly, she hated doing all this for what could barely be called a “tip.”
But if she ever wanted to go into the publishing industry, she needed a degree, and she had few options when it came to paying for that degree–so here she was.
“Night, Molly,” she called to her roommate. Molly was nose-deep in a fashion magazine right now. She muttered “g’night” more out of reflex or instinct than sincerity–not that Ellie held it against her.
The only good thing about her job was that it was almost impossible to be late. She lived two blocks from the restaurant. Throwing her bag down in the so-called locker room, she braided her shadowy hair and tossed it over one shoulder (Molly told her it looked chic and less severe that way).
Armed with an apron and a pad of paper, she braced herself for another long evening.
She slipped out and stopped by her first table, barely even looking at the solitary diner. “Hello, my name is Ellie and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you off with a drink or an appetizer?”