She was always there, always sitting in the same old booth with tears along with its aged leather. What a peculiar girl she was. She never spoke to anyone, never batted an eye at any stranger who dared to shoot daggers at her with their eyes. She stayed within her thoughts, only returning to reality to mutter her daily request: “One cup of tea and two pancakes with syrup but no butter, please.” It was quite an odd order in my opinion, because who eats pancakes with no butter? Then I figured, maybe she’s allergic. Allergic to butter? I’d never heard of such a thing. Perhaps she had just never been fond of butter, no matter how strange it is to order butterless pancakes. Although she always ordered two pancakes, she only ever ate one. What a waste. 

Anyways, she was the most peculiar girl I had ever laid my eyes upon. She had a most depressing nature about her, as though she didn’t care quite enough about anything and everything. Her hair went down hardly past her chin, and it had always been that way. Her eccentric earrings dangled and danced when she moved even an inch. I sometimes wondered whether she moved only for the mere satisfaction of the hushed tune that must have been going through her ears. Although her odd facial expressions and her permanent eyebags stayed constant, her clothes always changed with the wind. I’m not completely sure what that might mean, but those were her words when I asked her the question, “Why is it that your clothes seem to grow more unconventional day by day?” to which she replied with not a hint of hesitation or surprise in her voice, “I change with the wind, as does my wardrobe.” 

What a peculiar girl she was. A peculiar girl indeed. You must be wondering what kind of fashion choices these must have been to make this girl appear so peculiar. Well, I’ll tell you now. One day, she entered the diner wearing a forest green sweater that seemed to be handmade, cascading all the way down to her knees. You’ll never believe what covered the sweater almost completely… Frogs! It was a frog sweater, a handmade frog sweater. How long it must have taken to knit each frog with such detail, the careful work of putting each one into its own special place. What skill and creativity it must have taken! On top of her head sat a baby-blue headband, right in the crease where her bangs met the rest of her hair. Bracelets covered her wrists, leaving almost no room for the sweater to meet her hands. Rings occupied her slim fingers, and I’d always wanted to count them, but I never got around to it. Peeking out from under her abnormally large frog sweater was a pair of ripped blue jeans, which were also very large on her petite body. Fishnet tights hid underneath, almost begging to make a statement. What statement would that be? Maybe that she didn’t care what people thought about what she wore, or how she might have been perceived. 

She paid no mind to anybody, she only sat in her special booth, slowly eating her pancakes, and sipping her cup of hot tea. Sometimes I’d watch her from the counter, attempting to get a glimpse inside her mind. That was the way every day was, and that was the way every day was supposed to be until the end of time. However, the story must end here. She was always there, until one day she wasn’t. Her vacant booth has remained that way, as no one dared to sit in such a spot. I haven’t seen her in years. Actually, that’s a lie. I saw her picture in the newspaper about a week after she disappeared, and although the reason she was in the newspaper was very much unfortunate, it was the only time I ever saw her with a smile.