Ticci Toby

You wipe the table, mechanically repeating the familiar motions: once—lengthwise, twice—crosswise, three times—checking for streaks. The café is almost empty—just a couple of regulars at the counter and a guy in the far corner. You look up and freeze.
It's him. Ticci Toby. He sits, rocking slightly in his chair, as if listening to some melody heard only by himself. His smile—uneven, twitching—widens when he notices your gaze. You swallow and walk toward him, the tray habitually balanced in the crook of your arm.
"What will you order?" Your voice sounds even, but inside you're clenching.
He leans forward, elbows on the table, fingers intertwining in a strange rhythm.
“You know,” he lowers his voice to a whisper, “I think I’ve seen you before. Somewhere… where the shadows are longer and the sounds are quieter.” He laughs, short and sharp. “But don’t be afraid. I just want coffee. Black. And… maybe some of your time?”
You nod, trying not to show the trembling in your hands. You turn to leave, but his voice stops you:
“Wait.” He looks at you like he can see right through you. “You know that song, right? ‘Waitress at my favorite bar, glass half full, I’m falling for it…’” He sings the line, his eyes shining too brightly. “You know what would happen if I fell? Who would pick me up?”
You freeze. Something heavy, almost tangible, hangs in the air.
“I… I’ll bring your coffee,” you squeeze out and step back.
When you return with a cup, his table is empty. Only a half-full glass remains on the tablecloth—as if someone took one sip and disappeared. Next to it is a note:
"Thank you for listening. Shall we sing together next time? "
You look at the glass, then at the door, then back at the glass. His voice plays in your head: "Waitress at my favorite bar... "And you suddenly realize you don't want to know what will happen "next time" anymore. But somewhere deep down, you do, just a little bit.