I’m not actually Frank. I’m Francesca. But my customers call me Frank because my great-grandpa opened this place and passed it down to my grandpa, then my dad, then me. There were no sons to carry it on, so I did. Franks’s Diner, just outside Old City Philadelphia.

So many stories pass through my doors.

I get lots of the same customers. On Thursday the special is spanakopita with a Greek salad and pita bread. Some folks only come for that.

Elly comes every Thursday. She is lovely, with her long hair in a bun and adorable cats eye glasses. We flirt as I serve her but I doubt she’s actually interested in a woman with an acid scar. I’ve since given up on love.

One day she asks for advice. I sit down and watch the other wait staff bustle about.

“It’s my upstairs neighbors,” she said. “I think they’re going to kill each other one day.”

I widen my eyes.

“Thing is, when I see them any other time, they are totally in love. Happy. Radiant, even. Then at night, around 7 pm, upstairs, they go at it. Always the same argument!”

Next Thursday I asked how the neighbors were. It was a busy day but I needed to know.

“I’m so embarrassed.” Elly confessed. “I finally asked them about the arguing.”

“Let me serve these platters first, I want to know!”

Three orders of Spinach pie, salad, and pita. One order with anchovies. My gloved hand placed the tiny oily fishes in an X design. I scooted the platters to the end of the counter.

“Well?”

“It’s ridiculous of course,” Elly sighed, poking her pie with a fork.

“What??”

“They’re both actors. Rehearsing lines. We laughed about it.”

“Well that explains it all!”

Elly pulled two pieces of paper out of her purse.

“They gave me two tickets to the show tomorrow night,” she said. “Wanna go with me?”