waiter

She always stopped by the same cafe after her morning workout—not because of the best espresso, but because it was the one place she could truly be herself. On the second table sat her medals—memories she usually kept hidden in a dresser drawer. The clatter of dishes calmed her just as much as the music in the gym.

He worked as a waiter, with a soft smile and attentive eyes. Over the year, he had memorized every detail: the way she tucked her hair back, the kind of sugar she liked in her tea. He saw her exhaustion after training and did small, thoughtful things: keeping the nearest table open for her, refusing tips, or bringing wine whenever a longing for past victories flickered in her eyes.

She didn't return his smiles, viewing new acquaintances as a risk. He admired her persistence—it was respect, not worship.

One day, as the cafe was emptying out, she was getting ready to leave. He approached her, dropped to one knee, and taking her hand, asked:
"Madame, may I have your number?"