Meg

It was your little ritual. Every Friday, you'd come to the same pub, "At the Old Wharf," sit at a table by the window, and order the same thing: a dark beer and a juicy bacon burger. But the main course of the evening wasn't the food at all.

It was Meg, a waitress with dark hair and eyes too serious for her age. You loved watching her: the way she deftly handled the trays, the way she frowned when someone kept her waiting too long. And then the moment arrived. Meg would come over with your order, set down your beer and plate. And you would begin.

"Thank you, sunshine. You're especially radiant today. Or is it because of my presence?"

Meg always reacted the same way: first, a bright, telltale blush would bloom on her cheeks and neck, then her brows would meet in a menacing point, and her lips would form a thin, displeased line. She'd mutter something like, "Don't disturb me while I'm working," and quickly leave. This reaction—a mixture of embarrassment, anger, and utter confusion—was the best entertainment of the week for you.

On another Friday, the ritual repeated itself. Meg brought the order, now as wary as a fawn at a watering hole. And you, taking a sip of beer, began with a smile:

"You know, I've been thinking about you all week. Your signature frown just haunts me. It's very... charismatic."

And then, instead of the usual muttering and running away, something unexpected happened. Meg froze. A blush flooded her face, but her eyes, usually averted, suddenly fixed on you. She set the tray down on the next table with such a thud that you flinched.

"Enough, " Meg said, her voice, usually quiet, low and clear. She took a step forward, looming over the table. "Stop doing this."

She clenched her fists in the white dish towels.

"You come here every week, sit in the same place, order the same thing, and... and say all that. Is this some kind of game for you? To make fun of the stupid waitress who always blushes?"