FICTION

The Diner (Where Grease Meets Regret)

The Grease Trap Diner stood like a beacon of poor decisions made slightly better with hash browns. It had peeling booths, 24-hour fluorescent lighting, and the smell of burnt bacon baked into every surface.

Harper wrinkled her nose as we stepped inside. “It’s like someone deep-fried sadness and put it on a plate.”

A waitress appeared, equal parts tired and unamused. Her nametag was upside down, and she looked like she had just crawled out of a regrettable night and into her shift without a detour through self-care. Mascara slightly smudged. Hair bun defying physics. Coffee in one hand, soul long departed.

She stared at me like she was reliving something traumatic. “Oh. Look who’s alive.”

“You remember me?” I asked.

“You cried into a pancake.”

Harper clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the laugh. “You always make such a strong impression.”

The waitress slid us into a booth with the energy of someone who had absolutely zero left to give. “You and Tank Top Man came in here at like 3 a.m., tried to order nachos using interpretive dance, and then debated the moon landing with a jukebox.”

“I’m starting to think I owe this entire city an apology,” I muttered.

She poured us coffee like she was dealing cards in a poker game she had already lost. “You made me promise I’d never speak of it. But here we are.”

Harper leaned in, still grinning. “Any chance he left a wallet here?”

The waitress—Marge, apparently, per her crooked tag—shook her head. “Nah. But you wouldn’t shut up about Lucky Note Karaoke. Said you needed to ‘redeem your voice and your legacy.’”

“That sounds like something I would drunkenly declare,” I admitted.

“You also said you were going to drop the mic and your toxic tendencies. Then you stole a breadbasket.”

Harper blinked. “Why a breadbasket?”

“I claimed it was symbolic,” I muttered.

Marge handed me a receipt with a scrawled note on the back:
“Raj still owes you the mic. Lucky Note Karaoke.”

Harper raised an eyebrow. “Raj?”

“I have no memory of that name, which means it’s probably important.”

The Karaoke Bar (Where Self-Respect Goes to Die)

Lucky Note Karaoke looked like a speakeasy run by tone-deaf ghosts. The lighting was dim; the carpet was sticky, and a muffled rendition of Living on a Prayer wailed from the next room.

“I already hate it here,” Harper muttered.

“I think this is where I transcended,” I said.

Raj, the bartender, looked up as we approached. “Ah. The tenor of tequila returns.”

“Raj,” I said. “Please tell me you found a wallet. It’s black, a little beat up, contains my entire sense of security.”

Raj smirked and reached under the bar. “This one?”

I nearly wept.

“I kept it here,” he said, “because you made me swear not to give it to you unless you remembered the sacred vow.”

Harper arched an eyebrow. “What vow?”

Raj grinned and held up a napkin. Scrawled in my chicken-scratch handwriting were the words:
“Future me: if you’re reading this, you’re probably panicking. Don’t. I hid the wallet here. Because drunk-you was a liability. You’re welcome. Also, drink water, you crusty bitch.”

I stared at it in silence.

Harper burst out laughing so hard she had to sit down.

“I hate and respect myself,” I whispered.

Raj handed over the wallet. “Cards intact. Cash untouched. You even tucked in a note that just says: ‘Remember: NO BACKFLIPS.’”

“I want to go home,” I said, taking it reverently.

“You said that last night,” Raj replied. “Right before singing Bohemian Rhapsody like you were exorcising a demon.”

Return of the Wallet Warrior

Back at the apartment, I collapsed on the couch like a war hero returning from the front lines. My wallet—miraculously intact—was now clutched in both hands like it contained ancient wisdom.

Harper tossed her jacket onto a chair and flopped down across from me, watching like a judge awaiting a confession. “So. You retrieved the sacred artifact. At what cost?”

I opened the wallet and rifled through it.
Cards? Present.
Cash? Surprisingly untouched.
Sanity? Negotiable.

“I think I aged five years,” I said. “Also, apparently, I’m prone to hiding things from myself when drunk. Like a paranoid raccoon.”

Harper leaned forward. “So… lessons learned?”

I nodded solemnly. “Never attempt a backflip. Never trust tequila. Never trust myself.”

“Three truths,” she said. “Write them on your wall.”

Then she pulled out her phone.

“What’s that?” I asked.

She smirked. “Your final humiliation.”

I watched in slow horror as she pressed play on a voicemail. My own voice, slurred and self-important, filled the room:

“Hey, future me. It’s past you. I know you’re probably panicking right now because you’re a dumbass. Don’t worry. I hid your wallet at the karaoke bar. You made me do it. You’re welcome. Also, you’re gonna want Gatorade. And don’t call your ex. I know you’re thinking about it. DON’T.”

There was a long pause on the message. Then, faintly, “…I think I might be a genius.”

Harper was in tears.

“I am,” I said slowly, “my own unreliable narrator.”

“You left yourself a drunk fail-safe,” she said. “Like an alcoholic Mission: Impossible.”

“It actually worked,” I whispered.

Harper grinned. “Too bad you’ll never live it down.”

Scene 8: The Final Baby Step

The next morning, I downloaded a wallet-tracking app, activated it, and set up notifications. I was taking control, being responsible.

I was… learning?

Harper wandered into the room, half-awake, sipping coffee. “Look at you. Growing.”

“I’m trying,” I said. “Baby steps.”

She nodded.

Then paused.

“Where’s your phone?”

I blinked.

Patted my pockets.

Checked the couch cushions.

Looked under the cat.

“…Oh no.”

Harper sipped. “Back to the quest, Odysseus.”

THE END
(Or is it?)

Did I tell you about the time Harper stalked a stripper