“So,” the other lady chimed in, “your manager tells us you’re leaving.”
“Oh?”
“Well, we were telling him how great of a waiter you are…” She waited for me to acknowledge the compliment. “And he agreed, of course. But he also said he was sad to see you go.”
“Ah, yup. I am moving on, sadly.” Why sadly? I shouldn’t be sad. This job was hellish.
“Where are you moving on to?”
“To Michigan, actually. I’m going to grad school.”
“Oooh,” they clucked in unison. “Congratulations!”
“Thank you.”
“How exciting,” the grey one said.
“It is.”
“And you’re going for what?”
“To get my Ph.D.”
“Oooh—a Ph.D. in what?”
“Comparative literature.”
“Ah!” she giggled. “So, we can expect to see you working here again when you’re all finished?”