CONTESSA DOESN’T UNDERSTAND COMPLAINING

The late afternoon sun slanted through the diner windows, stretching long shadows across the booths. The lunch rush had faded, leaving only a handful of customers lingering over coffee refills and half-eaten pie. Contessa wiped down the counter with her usual precision, while Maggie leaned against the register, watching an older man at one of the booths.

He was hunched over his plate, frowning deeply at his food.

“Here we go,” Maggie muttered.

Contessa followed her gaze. “He appears displeased.”

“Yeah, that’s Mr. Carter,” Maggie sighed. “He complains about his food every time he comes in.”

Contessa frowned. “Then why does he return?”

Maggie smirked. “That’s the mystery, ain’t it?”

As if on cue, Mr. Carter let out an exaggerated sigh and waved Maggie over.

“This toast is burnt,” he grumbled.

Maggie glanced at the toast. It was a perfect golden brown.

“That’s how you ordered it,” she said.

“I wanted it lighter.”

“You said extra crispy.”

“Not this crispy.”

Maggie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do you want me to bring you another piece, Mr. Carter?”

He let out another long-suffering sigh. “No, no. I’ll eat it. I suppose.”

Contessa observed the exchange carefully. When Maggie returned to the counter, she asked, “If he is dissatisfied, why does he refuse a replacement?”

Maggie shrugged. “Some people just like to complain.”

“That is illogical.”

“Yep.”

Contessa thought for a moment. Then, after a pause, she turned to a customer sitting at the counter. “Your coffee is too hot.”

The man blinked. “Uh… what?”

She turned to another. “Your eggs are improperly salted.”

Maggie groaned. “Hon—”

Contessa shifted her gaze to Dennis, who was peeking out from the kitchen window. “The kitchen service is slow.”

Dennis grinned. “You’re damn right it is.”

Maggie smacked his arm before turning back to Contessa. “What exactly are you doing?”

“I am adapting,” Contessa said. “If complaining is an expected social behavior, I will participate.”

Maggie gave her a long, tired look.

“Hon,” she said, “you really don’t understand complaining.”