Trey sits at a table alone, a steaming coffee cup in one hand. His other types on the keyboard with loud and fast clicks and clacks. He enjoys the hustle and bustle of the restaurant – his favorite to go to for writing and relaxation. There is a server that he's taken a liking to, long blonde hair with sculpted features, just the right height with an athletic build. Trey is twenty years her senior. When he patrons, they flirt with smiles and sheepish giggles. Oftentimes, they'll speak of future plans, whether far ahead or the next day. A few times, they uncomfortably asked each other of their plans for the rest of the day, then walked away, leaving him to wonder..."Was she waiting for an invitation to hang out or was she just being a very friendly waitress?"
He watches her when she walks by, carefully wary of his gaze so as not to draw attention to the path of his eyes. She walks calmly with a smile and glances at him as if to say..."I know you're looking at me..." but she says nothing. Neither does he, leaving self-talk about his lack of charm and prowess.
"But she's in her twenties. I'm an old broken down soldier riddled with shell shock and chronic pain," he thinks.
She doesn't know the struggles he goes through everyday. He hides the internal strife caused by the simple act of leaving the house – the terror and anxiety that permeates his mind in times of even the slightest stress. At the restaurant, however, he's well-dressed, clean-shaven, and typing away. He's smiling at other patrons, wearing a scent concoction of his own creation, and joking with the staff. They know him from his frequent visits.
She passes by again, this time, stopping for a moment to check on him.
“Are you done with your plate?” she asks.
He looks down at his food, it is only half gone, “No, thank you,” he says with a smile. “I’m not done yet.”
“Oh, I guess not,” she says with a cute smile to match her voice. “Is there anything I can get you?”
Trey’s mind screams “Her number. She can get you her number!”
“Maybe some hot sauce?” he says.
She smiles and winks, “Right away.”
He mentally slaps his forehead and physically droops his head. He lost his nerve again, if he ever had nerve at all. “Next time,” he thinks, “when she comes back, I’m going to ask her.”
He waits, patiently, for what felt, to him, like forty-five minutes. He had time to ponder, “What am I talking about? She’s twenty!” Then, “She’s throwing down signs, though. Maybe you can become friends at least. Ask her!”
Finally, she returns with his condiment, “Here you go, sweetie.”
“Hey…” he starts as she starts to walk away, “...What would say to us going to dinner or something? Maybe I can get your phone number.”
Her smile touches both of her ears, “I’d like that.”
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