The Diner Tab

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At the edge of Route 19, where truckers slumped over coffee, Sal’s Diner had a tab no one paid. It hung behind the counter, yellowed paper scrawled with names—Rusty, Mags, Jo–and debts in red ink. New waitress Carla asked about it once. Sal grunted

“They’ll settle up.”

Late one shift, a guy shuffled in—greasy hair, eyes like piss-holes in sand. Ordered nothing, just stared at the tab. Carla caught his name—Rusty—before he left, dropping a wet dollar that smelled of dirt. Next night, the tab was shorter, Rusty’s line gone. Sal smirked. 

“Told you.”

Carla quit when she saw her name scratched out at the bottom with red ink on the paid tab. With her debt to the diner being paid off, she left.

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