“You can barely stand.”
“I can stand.”
“You don’t get a medal for suffering.”
“I need the table.”
She knew what I meant.
Tips.
Rent.
Bills.
The calculations that never left my head.
Diane sighed.
“One more pain like that and you’re sitting down whether you like it or not.”
“Deal.”
Three minutes later, I carried the steak toward the customer’s booth.
I had barely lowered it toward the table when his eyes dropped to his watch.
Then he looked at me.
“You’re late.”
Part 3 — One Minute
I thought he might be joking.
He wasn’t.
“I’m sorry?”
“Eleven minutes.”
His voice carried just enough for the surrounding tables to hear.
“I gave you ten.”
“I apologize, sir. I had a pain and needed to stop for a moment.”
His gaze moved toward my stomach.
For half a second, I expected concern.
Instead, irritation crossed his face.
“Pregnancy isn’t an excuse for incompetence.”
Something inside me tightened harder than the pain had.
He continued.
“Women make careless choices and then expect the rest of the world to adjust its standards around them.”
The conversations nearest us faded.
I could feel people listening.
Heat climbed into my face.
I wanted to tell him he knew nothing about me.
Nothing about the man who had disappeared.
Nothing about the money in my purse.
Nothing about working on swollen ankles because staying home didn’t pay rent.
Nothing about lying awake at two in the morning wondering whether I could build a life for a baby when I barely knew how I was going to pay next month’s electric bill.
Instead, I kept my voice even.
“Your meal took eleven minutes from the time I entered the order.”
“Exactly.”
He smiled.
“One minute late.”
There was something almost triumphant in the way he said it.
As though catching a pregnant waitress breaking an arbitrary deadline proved something important about the universe.
“I apologize for the delay.”
