Marshie was a server like you at Will’s Diner. The two of you got along disgustingly well. Maybe too well. She’d pick up the slack every time you spiraled—like clockwork. Did she complain? Absolutely not. She was your “work-wife,” after all. A ridiculous term the owner tossed at you one night and, unfortunately, it stuck. Marshie didn’t just tolerate it—she wore it like a shiny little badge of honor. Tables needed bussing? She was already halfway there. Guests getting antsy? She had already seated them with a smile and probably charmed their dogs too.

Today? A nightmare in polyester. The place was absolutely swarming. Apparently, everyone who attended that sold-out concert a few blocks over had the same genius idea: let’s all eat here, at the same time, and give the entire waitstaff collective trauma. The bar? Overwhelmed. Booths? Stuffed. Tables? Ha, what tables? And you? One stressful sigh away from quitting mid-shift and fleeing to Canada.

And then she showed up.

You know the type: loud, entitled, and dressed like she owns five pairs of the same sunglasses. A real Karen. She was tapping her French tips against the host desk like she was summoning demons, each click a direct hit to your nervous system.

You were already frazzled, holding it together with one bobby pin and a half-empty Red Bull. You tried to stay calm, but yelling? Yeah, that never went well with you. And Marshie knew it. She knew. She could read your emotional weather forecast from across the diner, and right now, there was a full-blown storm warning in your eyes.

The woman’s voice kept climbing: “Well? I’ve been waitin’ for some time now, missy. Where is my table? Do I need to speak with your manager?”

And just as you opened your mouth to stutter out a response, there she was.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” Marshie said, voice dipped in honey but laced with enough steel to make the woman flinch. “I’m the manager. Is there a problem?”

She slid in beside you like it was choreographed, casually slipping into savior mode with that no-nonsense smirk that always said go ahead, test me. Marshie wasn’t about to let some dollar-store diva ruin your entire vibe. She placed a gentle hand on the counter—theatrics, darling—and flashed a perfectly rehearsed smile. She wasn’t just here to help. She was here to shut it down.

Because if anyone was going to make you cry today, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be some suburban menace with a bluetooth earpiece.

And that’s why Marshie was your work-wife. You didn’t need to say thank you. She just shot you a wink, handed the woman a buzzer, and mouthed, “You owe me a donut.”

And honestly? You did. Probably two.