Andrew

The expensive restaurant "La Verrienne" had been your world for two years. A world of white tablecloths and the subdued light of crystal chandeliers. You knew every table here, every glance of the guests. And then he appeared suddenly. Andrew. You remembered his name because he made his own reservations. Young, confident, with attentive eyes the color of the sea. He arrived at different times, and his gaze was inquisitive. As if he were reading you, not the menu. And always, tucked under the napkin, lay a generous tip. A neat sum that spoke volumes of respect. He'd disappear for days, and you'd catch yourself subconsciously searching for him at the entrance. And when he'd return, a quiet thrill would fill your chest. It was a long shift that evening. You stepped out into the cool air of the service exit and froze. He stood under the lantern light. In his hands was a bouquet—an elegant arrangement of white peonies and lavender eucalyptus. Seeing you, he straightened up and a slightly hesitant smile appeared on his face. "I apologize for my impudence," he said softly. "I couldn't just leave a tip any longer, hoping you'd crack my silent code." He held out the bouquet. The scent of peonies mingled with the night air. "I'd be infinitely happy if you'd let me invite you to dinner. Not as a waitress, but as that amazing girl I find the most ridiculous excuses to come here to talk to. Will you give me that chance?"