"Tell me about your mother," he says.
And I do.
I tell him about her. About the fever. About the winter that took half a dozen souls from the valley, and the way she held on longer than anyone expected, and the way her hand felt in mine when she finally let go.
I haven't told anyone about that. Not my sisters. Not my father. Not the therapist I saw for three sessions before I decided I couldn't afford it. But I tell him, and he listens, and when I'm done, I feel lighter. Like something I've been carrying has been set down.
He doesn't say he's sorry. He doesn't offer condolences or platitudes or any of the things people say when they don't know what else to say. He just sits there, silent and solid, and lets the space around us hold what I've given him.
I think that's why I keep talking.
I think that's why I start looking forward to his visits.
By the end of the second week, I've stopped pretending.
I look forward to the chime of the door after midnight. I look forward to the sight of him walking through it, tall and broad and expensive, his grey eyes finding mine across the room like they're drawn to me by something stronger than gravity. I look forward to the way he sits, the way he drinks his coffee, the way he says my name like it's something precious.
Monika. Not Moni. Not Monica with a C. Monika, the way my mother said it, the way my father says it when he calls on Sunday nights. Like it's a word that means something.
I notice things about him now. Things I didn't notice before.
The way his hands look when he's holding the coffee mug—strong, capable, the hands of a man who has done things with them. The way his jaw tightens when I say something that surprises him. The way his eyes follow me when I move around the diner, tracking me like I'm something worth tracking.
He doesn't look at my chest. I noticed that on the first night, and I notice it still. His eyes stay on my face—my eyes, my mouth, the way my hair falls across my forehead when I lean over to wipe the counter. It's disarming. Most men look. Most men let their gaze wander like they have a right to take whatever they want.
He doesn't. He looks at me like I'm a person. Like I'm worth seeing.
I don't know why that makes me want him to look elsewhere. But it does.
On the fifteenth night, he leaves something on the counter.
A card. Small. White. No logo, no company name, just a phone number printed in clean black letters.
He pushes it toward me with one finger, and I look at it, and then I look at him.
"What's this?"
"A phone number. In case you ever need anything."
"Need what?"
His eyes meet mine. There's something in them I haven't seen before—something that looks almost like vulnerability, though I can't imagine a man like him being vulnerable about anything.
"Anything," he says. "A ride. A place to stay. Someone to talk to. Someone to make a problem go away." He pauses. "Whatever you need, Monika. Call that number, and I'll answer."
I pick up the card. It's warm from his hand. I can feel the ghost of his fingers on the paper, and I don't know why that makes my throat tight.
"I don't even know your name."
He stands. Straightens his tie. Looks down at me with those grey, grey eyes, and I feel something shift in my chest. Something that feels like the beginning of an ending.
"No," he says. "You don't."
He walks to the door. The chime sounds, cheap and cheerful, and the wind blows through the gap, carrying the smell of exhaust and rain and something else.
Something that smells like cedar and smoke and the beginning of a story I'm not sure I want to be in.
I put the card in my apron pocket.
