When the food arrived, she criticized every detail while continuing her livestream.
Too dry. Too small. Not good enough for her audience.
Each time I offered to fix it, she rolled her eyes and complained louder.
When I brought the check, she stared at it like it offended her.
She told her viewers the diner was overcharging her.
Then she looked at me and said I’d been rude the entire time.
Before I could respond, she stood up, smiled into her phone, and walked out — leaving the $112 bill on the table.
I watched the door close.
Then I smiled.
She had chosen the wrong grandmother.
I told my manager what happened.
He shrugged and said we’d deal with it later.
I told him no — I would.
One of the younger servers had a bike.
We followed her through town while she kept filming, clearly thinking she’d escaped.
Every time she relaxed, I appeared again.
On the sidewalk.
In a grocery store aisle.
Inside a shoe shop.
At a café.
In the park.
Each time, I calmly reminded her of the unpaid bill.
Each time, more people noticed.
Some laughed. Some encouraged her to pay.
She tried hiding in a yoga studio.
I waited.
