Page 29

I mop the same section of floor twice. Wipe the same beer ring off the counter until the wood’s practically raw. Rico notices, too, but doesn’t say anything. He’s the quiet type. Probably thinks I’ve got a thing for one of the waitresses.

If only.

No one here is like her.

Not even close.

She came in again last Friday. Quiet, smooth, floating. Wearing that same damn hoodie, drank another glass of white. Stayed maybe thirty minutes. Left without a word.

Since then?

Nothing.

And I hate how much that messed with me.

I start watching the door like it owes me money. Every time it swings open, I hold my breath like she’s going to come gliding through.

But she hasn’t for days.

And each night that she doesn’t show up, I sink a little deeper into a weird pocket of despair in my head, that place where my thoughts get sticky and nothing makes sense.

Twice a week, I remind myself. That’s what she said once, in a passing conversation.

“Sometimes I let myself have two nights out. Keeps me from becoming a total recluse.”

Two nights a week. So, maybe tonight? I can only hope.

She’s not avoiding me; she doesn’t even know I’m watching her, not consciously, at least.

But I wonder if she feels it.

I liken it to that thing you can’t quite explain, that feeling or itch along your spine when something invisible draws a line from their thoughts to yours.

Perhaps that itch is what’s been keeping her at home; perhaps I’ve pushed too far just by existing in the same space.

I tell myself to back off. That if she doesn’t come in by the weekend, I’ll quit the job. Walk away. Forget about her.

I lie to myself a lot.

I lean against the wall near the front doors, arms crossed, pretending not to ache for her.

And I wait...