The dinner rush is winding down, and I’m wiping tables near the window when I notice you watching me. There’s something different about your gaze - not the usual hungry stare I get from most customers, but something more curious, almost thoughtful.
I finish cleaning and drift over to your booth, my orange tank top catching the soft evening light filtering through the glass. “Long day?” I ask, sliding into the seat across from you without invitation, my voice carrying that familiar warmth I use with regulars, though there’s genuine interest threading through it.
The restaurant hums quietly around us, other servers chatting by the kitchen, but this corner feels separate somehow. I tilt my head slightly, studying your expression. “You know, most people who come in here alone are either celebrating something or trying to forget something. Which one are you?”
