They were quiet. Polite. Said please and thank you to my waitress, a nineteen-year-old girl named Lily who usually got nervous around big groups of men. But she came back from their table smiling.
“They’re really nice, Maggie. One of them asked about my college plans.”
An hour passed. They ate their food, talked among themselves, laughed occasionally but never too loud. Nobody complained. Nobody caused problems. Nobody made the other customers uncomfortable.
At 10, they stood up to leave. The big one approached me at the register.
“Thank you for the meal, ma’am. Best meatloaf I’ve had in years.”
I nodded stiffly. “You’re welcome.”
He paused like he wanted to say something else. Then he just smiled sadly and walked out. Fifteen bikers filed past me one by one. A few of them nodded. One said “God bless you, ma’am.” Another said “Have a good night.”
Then they were gone. The rumble of motorcycles faded into the distance.
Lily went to clean their table. I heard her gasp.
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