Bottom Dollar

The sticky scent of stale coffee and desperation clung to the air of Barney's Diner. Meg stared at the crisp hundred-dollar bill on the table, a stark anomaly amidst the usual meager tips. It had been left by a guy in a black motorcycle jacket, who’d ordered only orange juice and yogurt – the two cheapest items on the menu.
“Sweet baby Jesus,” Stacy, her fellow waitress, exclaimed, her voice several octaves too high. “What’d you do, give him a kiss?”
Meg scoffed, pocketing the Benjamin before the other waitresses could spot it. “It must have been my stellar service.” She knew, deep down, that her skills weren't worth that much.
Stacy rolled her eyes, wiping down the table with practiced ease. “Yeah, right. Must be that award-winning sarcasm you dish out to everyone.”
“Hey,” Meg said, a defensive edge to her voice. “I don’t see you with a hundred-dollar tip.”
“That’s because I don’t have that cute, girl-next-door thing going on.” Stacy’s eyes scanned Meg’s face, then she asked, “So, what are you going to do with it? Hit the casino? Treat me to dinner?”
“Pay the bills,” Meg replied, grabbing her car keys. The glamour of a hundred dollars quickly faded into the harsh reality of Pinewood.
