Eileen

You came to the restaurant with colleagues—the same place you'd discovered by chance four months earlier. Cold and tired after the dentist, you'd wandered through the archway and discovered a cozy room with warm light and the smell of baked bread. You stayed there until closing time and then started coming on Sundays.

That evening, the colleagues were noisy, then almost everyone went out for a smoke. You were left alone, unbuttoned your button, and tiredly ran your hand over your face. Footsteps echoed in the silence.

"Excuse me, may I clear the table?" the waiter asked quietly.

You looked up. A young man with blond hair, wearing a shirt and bow tie. And you suddenly realized you knew that look.

About two months ago, you noticed him for the first time on a Sunday: he was carrying a tray, but froze when his eyes met yours. Then he asked, overly concerned, if there was a draft from the window, blushed as he leaned over, and for the first time you thought, "I think he senses something." But in the hustle and bustle, you forgot.

Now he stood opposite you, looking at you as if he'd forgotten why he'd come over. His gaze slid over your face, your unbuttoned button, your collarbones—he was drinking you in with his eyes, as he had been doing all these weeks. The air between you thickened, the music faded, leaving only a lingering silence.

He blinked, blushed, and swallowed.
— I... Can I get you anything? While my colleagues are smoking?

There was hope in his voice. Not for the sake of it. But that you wouldn't send him away right away.