Author: Devin Morales
I used to work the night shift at a 24-hour diner off Highway 80. The kind of place that smelled like old coffee and burnt toast. Between midnight and four, the only people who came in were truckers, insomniacs, and teenagers who thought staying up all night made them poets.
There was one regular, a man named Clyde, who always ordered eggs over easy and talked about his dead wife like she’d just stepped out to the store. Every night, same story, same plate of eggs. It used to make me sad.
But one night, he didn’t come. Weeks went by, and finally, a letter arrived, addressed to “The Waitress Who Always Listens.” He’d moved to Arizona to live with his daughter. “Thanks for making those lonely nights feel less empty,” he wrote.
I still think about Clyde when I pour coffee for the 3 a.m. crowd. Some people just need someone to listen.
