Monday, November 17th. Another slow night at the diner.  

Ivy leans against the counter, doodling on her notepad as Beth rattles off all the gossip she’s been saving up the last two hours. There is a never-ending outpour of patrons’ secrets. 

“I heard that Ron is thinking of selling this place,” she says, waving her freshly manicured hand in the air. She turns toward Ivy, placing her hand on her hip, conspicuously displaying her shiny red nails. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, you get what I’m saying? I’ve been here for fifteen years.”  

“Wait, really?” Ivy glances at Beth then looks back down at her notepad where she’s been keeping track of the number of tips she’s earned tonight. “Couldn’t wait until the end of my shift to give me bad news?” 

As Beth begins to ramble, Ivy examines the few people left in the diner. A young couple occupies a small table in the middle of the dining area. A group of older women about Beth’s age—who are surprisingly pleasant considering how most of the elderly in town act toward her in the evening—are giggling in the round corner booth. (Although, for some reason, Beth refuses to help them, crafting terrible excuses whenever Ivy suggests the notion.) Lastly, a middle-aged man in a suit is sitting at the bar, staring into his half-empty mug of warm Coors Light—the old beer kept in the back of the walk-in refrigerator—and digging into his front pocket. He's been checking it continually for the last twenty minutes—for what, exactly? She has no guesses. 

She looks over at Beth, who’s staring expectantly at her through her thick-rimmed, triangular glasses. “Sorry, what did you say?” 

“Never mind.” Beth turns and grabs a carafe filled with day-old coffee. “I got the sad guy at the counter if you want to check on the couple over there.” 

“Sure. Do you want to get the women after you’re done?”  

“Wow, now I really know you weren’t paying attention to me.” Beth pauses, then says, “No, I don’t want to get them.” 

Ivy shrugs it off—she can’t be bothered with Beth’s dramatics—and meanders to the table, plastering on her biggest, fakest smile. She can feel the glossy peach lipstick smudged on her face, cracking where her future smile lines would be. A small price to pay for a large sum of nightly tips.  

“How’s everything going over here? The food tasting alright?” 

“Yes,” the boy says, forcing a polite laugh. He maintains his gaze on his partner, who is staring back at him with narrowed eyes.  

“Yes, it’s fine,” she says afterwards, shifting in her seat. “Thank you.” 

Their food—a stack of pancakes with three over easy eggs and a plate of bacon—lies untouched, melted butter forming puddles on all sides. Their lemon wedges also remain on the rims of their drinks, which are coincidentally at the exact same depth as when Ivy filled them forty-five minutes earlier, when the couple first sat down. 

“No problem,” Ivy responds, reaching into her apron. “Will your checks be together or separate tonight?” 

“Together,” the boy says, grabbing his wallet from his jacket pocket. 

“Separate.” The girl corrects him immediately, his eyes widening in response.  

He slowly leans over, placing the wallet back in its original position. “Uh, could we actually have some more time, please?” 

*** 

The clock on the wall, which hangs on a rusty screw by a thin piece of metal wire, reads 8:49 p.m., meaning there is little chance of other customers arriving anytime soon; this time of night is just enough past dinner to ensure a lack of business but not close enough to midnight to attract the rebellious teenagers and ravenous stoners. The diner has been slower than usual the last six weeks thanks to the new “all-you-can-eat” buffet next door, magnifying the threat of permanent closure. The mere thought of having to edit job applications and endure round after round of failed interviews was so stressful, Ivy didn’t want to contemplate it for even a second. 

“So, whaddya think about Mr. and Mrs. Perfect over there?” Beth asks, peering into the kitchen for a missing plate of fries.  

“You can tell, too?” 

“I could tell even if I didn’t have my glasses on.” She finds the plate of fries and secretly snatches one off the top before setting the rest down for the man in the suit to enjoy. Now that he has finished off his beer, he is fixated on his coffee, oblivious to its expiration. “It reeks of disappointment over there. Remind me to get the Lysol spray out when they leave.” 

Ivy laughs under her breath, quietly enough so Beth can’t hear it. “You’re too much sometimes.” 

“No, seriously,” Beth says. “I’ll bet you my tips for the night that their little dinner date ends in her hightailing it outta here. Look at them closely—the way her arms are crossed, how she’s tapping her foot on the ground—he’s done for.”  

Ivy perks up at the imaginary sound of dollar signs. She could use the extra pocket change, especially considering the inevitable fate of the diner. “Deal.”  

In her peripheral vision, she can see the girl bending over to grab her purse. She must put a stop to it, more for her sake than theirs. 

“Can I get anything else for you two? Some fresh water? Maybe an iced tea?” she shouts as she walks toward them. When she reaches the table, she leans in toward the couple, holding her notepad to her chest and looking side-to-side as if she’s letting them in on top secret information. “I personally recommend the raspberry flavor. It’s amazing.”  

Neither one is amused. 

“No, thanks,” they say in harmony, glancing at each other, blinking. This must be the first time in a while they’ve been in sync.  

Ivy smirks, pulling a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh, I totally understand.”  

It’s clear that they both want her to leave, the silence between them getting stronger by the second—if not for the crackling radio blasting country songs on loop. Instead of reading the room, Ivy opts to clear her throat, resting herself at the edge of their table, looking around obliviously: at the other patrons, in the back where Beth is scratching her armpits, and through the windows where she can see a little dog walking with its owner under a blinking streetlight. She does this for almost a minute, forcing herself to ignore the angered customers. All this for the extra tip. 

“Excuse me?” The girl waves her hand, snapping Ivy out of her fake haze. “Is there something we can help you with?”  

There’s a look of disgust on her face, mixed with confusion and anger—her furry eyebrows say it all. The boy just sits there, eyeing her.  

“Oh, sorry. You know how long shifts can be,” Ivy says. The girl’s purse is back on the floor. “Anyway, just let me know if I can get ya anything else, okay?”  

As Ivy strides toward the back, she overhears the guy asking, “What the fuck was that all about?” followed by the girl’s laughter—the first sign of joy all night. Mission accomplished. 

*** 

Another twenty minutes fly by, and the couple speaks, laughs, and eats more than they have in the last hour. They even do that horrible thing where they feed each other with their forks. Beth is rightfully stunned. “What spell did you cast on those two? And on a night I got good tips, too?” 

“You always earn good tips,” Ivy responds. “Plus, don’t act like you don’t know about my secret love potions.”  

Nodding toward the man in the suit, she says, “Here, watch.” 

Ivy grabs another cup of coffee, stirs it with a little red coffee stirrer, and winks—all while Beth rolls her eyes. She sets it on the counter and pushes it to the man gracefully, who grabs the handle and takes a sip without acknowledging her. From this angle, he could easily be ten years her senior, but if he actually bothered to shower, shave, and wash his hair, he would be Ivy’s exact type.  

“It’s fresh,” she says, arms crossed on the counter a couple of inches from his right. “Just for you.”  

He doesn’t respond, much to Ivy’s disappointment. She grabs a small remote and waves it toward the television behind her in another attempt to start a conversation.  

“Anything you want me to turn on? News? Football? Comedy? I’ve been hearing a lot of talk about this new dating show… heard it’s pretty entertaining.” He finally looks up but doesn’t address her pitiful efforts.  

“Is the lottery on soon?”  

She skims through the guide, wondering why out of all the channels he could pick, he chooses the most boring one. “Yep. Channel 17 at 9:15.”   

The rattling of balls in their cages fills the room while a tall woman in a skintight, purple dress reads the numbers to the announcers. It’s midway in progress but still captures the attention of the man, who begins to creep forward. As he does so, Ivy notices the bright neon green of a lottery ticket sticking out of his front pocket. Beth apparently notices, too.  

“Midlife crisis, huh? Divorce?” She shakes her head, smacking her lips as she applies a new layer of chapstick. “Trust me, we’ve all been there.”   

He snaps back to reality, glaring at Beth. “I’m thirty-one,” he says, a revelation for both of the waitresses. 

“Yikes, sorry about that.” Beth screams into the back, “We’re gonna need another order of fries.” 

He already doesn’t care, however; he’s too busy laying his ticket on the counter, smoothing it out, looking back and forth at the television, and smoothing it out again. His eyes light up as he races through the numbers—his hands start to shake the farther he gets.   

“30… 12… 8… 22… 2…,” he whispers. All the numbers have been pulled—one left to go that could transform his life.  

Ivy clenches the rag in her hand and winces. She can’t bear the thought of some random stranger winning 5.4 million dollars right in front of her. Time seems to freeze as she waits for the number to be read aloud. Anything but a 13, anything but a 13, anything but a 13. She feels a little guilty wishing misfortune against him, but not enough to stop. The ball slowly rolls out of the cage and into the woman’s hand.  

“… 13!” She announces, grinning.  

Ivy feels her heart sink. Wow, I’m a shitty person. She jumps as he shouts behind her, climbing on top of his stool.  

“A round of drinks for everybody in here!” To his chagrin, no one stirs, too involved with themselves to pay attention to what is occurring on the other side of the diner. “Whatever,” he says, inching back to his original position. “Soon, I’ll be a millionaire and every one of you will be in this exact same position—broke!”  

One of the women simply lugs a half-bitten chip toward him as the rest of her friends cheer her on and return to their original conversations.  

Beth stifles a laugh. “I wish I could say I hate her.” 

“I’ll still take those drinks, please. For myself.” The man excitedly taps his fists on the countertop like an impatient child. “Who cares what any of them think? I’m on cloud nine, baby!”  

“Sure thing,” Ivy says, trying not to laugh in his face. She hurriedly pours beer into four tall glasses and arranges them in a diamond formation on a balancing tray. If she’s nice enough, maybe he’ll give her a large tip; he is a millionaire, after all, and an egotistical one at that.  

“So, what’s your name?” she asks, feigning interest. In the back of her mind, another larger plan is forming: one that could save her job. 

“Why’s it matter?” 

“It’s a slow night. Just looking for some conversation.” 

“I’m not in that good of a mood,” he says. “Can I drink my beer in peace?” 

“Of course.”  

She begins to wipe and clean and wipe and clean, circling him nonchalantly. Who’s to say the rest of the stools don’t need a triple coat of antibacterial spray, or that the soda nozzles don’t need replacing? A few minutes of this repetition makes the man visibly antsy. He copes by pretending to fix the cuffs of his button-down and surveying the room like a security camera. 

“I’ll tell you my name if you leave me alone for five minutes,” he says, breaking his silence. 

*** 

After a while of chatting with her new prospect—Dan, she discovers—Ivy says goodbye, sifting through the $200 tip he leaves her. He was hesitant to engage with her, he claims, his night seeming too good to be true; in actuality, the truth is complicated. Yes, Ivy thought he was somewhat attractive beforehand, but his new money cemented his allure. On the other hand, Ivy can tell Dan isn’t impressed; getting him to talk took hard labor, she refused to leave his side, and he had just won the lottery. Still, she believes she can win his affection, winning future rent payments in turn. She can nearly imagine herself swimming in a pile of cash, which is nothing to Dan now, anyway. On his way out, Ivy manages to obtain his phone number, establishing her next goal.  

The group of old women are the only ones left, the couple strolling out of the diner arm in arm. They have been dramatically recounting their escape from their fifty-year high school reunion step-by-step: how they distracted their classmates, stuffed the free breaded shrimp into their coat pockets, and walked out of the back door, hurrying toward the diner afterwards. 

How does Ivy know all of this? It’s hard not to hear their entire conversation with the other customers no longer blocking the sound waves from reaching her and Beth.  

“I can’t believe the nerve of that woman… what was her name?” one asks the others, digging through a saggy, orange purse that empties crumpled tissues and gum wrappers every time she opens it.  

“Martina?” another responds, trying to cut her cheese omelet into tiny pieces. Unlike the young couple, most of their food is still lying on the table from how much they’ve been talking. It must be cold by now. 

“Christ, they need to clean their ears out.” Beth groans, picking at her nail polish. “Earwax buildup can be the only explanation for… whatever that is.” 

“Why don’t you go tell them that?” Ivy asks, casually shoving the money and phone number into her back pocket.  

She stops for a moment, grimacing. “I would rather do anything else.” 

“Can you explain to me again why you’ve been hiding from them all night? You’re usually a fan of other women to gossip with.” 

“Why should I tell you a second time? It’s not like you cared enough to listen earlier.”  

“Oh, okay. Sorr—” 

“Okay, fine. Since you’re so persistent, I’ll tell you.” Beth pauses for dramatic effect before continuing. “We graduated together, we were all best friends for twenty years, and for some reason, they dropped me one day and haven’t spoken to me since.” 

“Wow.” Ivy doesn’t know what else to say. “Why are they here, then? They can obviously see you.” 

“I dunno, I guess they just don’t care that much.” She walks into the back, claiming she needs to wash her tray. The tray she doesn’t have. “That’s life.”  

Meanwhile, one of the elderly women with a red streak in her curly hair beckons Ivy to their booth. “Hi, sweetie, would you be able to grab us a pitcher of water?” She turns to the rest of her friends. “We promise we’ll be out of your hair soon.” 

Ivy crosses the dining area and reaches for a pitcher, but stops, setting it back down and pulling her hand away. She yells into the back, “Beth, I think we ran out of pitchers. Since you’re doing the dishes already, could you bring one out?”  

As Beth sifts through the sink trying to find a pitcher, Ivy takes a glass of water and pours it onto the tile floor, lying on top of the large puddle. “Beth!” 

She walks over, seemingly unaware of Ivy’s fake injury. “Here’s the pitcher.” 

Ivy chokes out a fake tear, followed by a half-gasp for air. “Will you take it over to that table for me? I think I twisted my ankle.” She bends over and grasps her right ankle, using her thumbs to rub it.  

“No.” 

Ivy gasps again. “I’m in so much pain. Please.”  

Beth sighs. “Still no.” 

“I’ll give you a quarter of the tips from tonight,” she says. “Better than nothing.” 

“Fine. I very much dislike you sometimes.” 

Ivy observes as Beth anxiously stumbles over to the table and sets the pitcher down, water leaking out from the sides onto the surface. Her hands quiver as she pulls napkins out of the holder and throws them down, the women watching silently.  

As she turns away, one whispers to the rest of the group before calling out, “Beth, is that you?” 

Beth stops in her tracks. “Yes?” 

The women all squeal, sounding like a chorus of discordant birds. “Oh, my goodness, it’s been so long! Come sit, come sit! We didn’t even recognize you!” They all scoot into one another, patting the newly open spot.  

She glances over to Ivy, unsure of what to do next, to which she responds by gesturing toward the empty room, mouthing, It’s not like there’s anything else to do. 

Beth leaps into the seat, running her mouth like there’s no tomorrow, and no time for grudges. Thirty minutes pass, and she runs up to rejoin Ivy at the counter. 

“Part of me thinks they’re just nosy and want to know what I’ve been doing in life, but I’m going to believe the other part of me that tells me they’re being genuine.” Beth pats Ivy on the back. “Thank you for pulling that whole ‘broken ankle’ charade.” 

It’s now eleven o’clock, and Ivy finally clocks out (the first time before 3 a.m. in over a week), wrapping her arms around Beth one last time before exiting into the cold, damp air. The parking lot is completely vacated, all signs of life officially tucked away within the confines of their homes. The streetlight is still blinking, however, making an aggravating clicking noise as it turns on and off. The moths must be confused.  

She grabs her keys from her purse and unlocks her tiny, yellow punch bug. After plopping into the torn leather seat, Ivy lays her head on the steering wheel, grateful for a brief respite from work and a giant wad of cash. She takes this moment of solitude to pull Dan’s number from her pocket and enter it into her phone. If he texts like he talks, she has nothing to look forward to, but she figures she’d rather try and fail than give up altogether.  

While drafting her message, she considers whether she should go through with it, envisioning its implications: slogging through small talk, followed by meaningless dates and the possibility of going further. Would she ever feel a connection? Would she simply use him? Would he text her back? She hits send regardless. 

Hey Dan! I don’t want to sound too forward, but I really enjoyed our conversation earlier. Would you want to go on a date sometime?  

She waits in anticipation as she watches his chat bubble appear and disappear for minutes on end, but nothing comes of it.  

Feeling embarrassed and ashamed (and everything in between), she pulls out of the lot, stuffs her phone into her jacket pocket, and glances into the diner, where Beth continues to mingle with old friends. This sight soothes her enough for the drive home, where she’ll eventually fall asleep on her velvet sofa, same as any other night. 

Entering her apartment, she takes her jacket off and slings it onto the nearest carpet. It buzzes mere seconds later. Ivy doesn’t hear this—she’s digging through her refrigerator for a piece of chocolate cake—but will find out soon enough. On its door hangs a picture of Ivy on her first day at the diner, where she smiles and points towards the giant neon sign on the roof. 

It reads: Miracle Diner.