waiter

She always stopped at the same cafe after her morning workout—not because of the best espresso, but because it was a place where she could be herself. On the second table were her medals—memorabilia she'd hidden in a dresser drawer. The clatter of the dishes was as calming as the music in the gym.

He worked as a waiter, with a gentle smile and attentive eyes. Over the course of a year, he memorized every detail: how she fixed her hair, what kind of sugar she liked in her tea. He saw her fatigue after training and did small, pleasant things for her: leaving the nearest table, not taking tips, bringing her wine when the yearning for victories began to creep on her tongue.

She didn't return his smiles, considering acquaintances risky. He liked her tenacity—it was respect, not worship.

One day, when the café was emptying, she was getting ready to leave. He came up to her, dropped to one knee, and, taking her hand, asked:

• Madam, could you give me your number?