Last updated on September 20th, 2024 at 02:23 pm
I swing into the eatery excited that this one aspect of my week didn’t shift. I had a busy week, the busiest I’ve had in a while. There was a case of domestic violence and it required more urgency than the usual cases. All hands had to be on deck to steer things in the right direction. Up until two hours ago, I was working. I absolutely dislike working on the weekends.
Famished, I order my food first and head to my usual spot only to see someone in my spot. Actually, it’s not my spot as in the sofa I sit on, but the one opposite. It’s a man. I contemplate moving to another place close to my usual spot when I see that it’s Mr. Luke. How dare he? I’m exhausted and frustrated and I don’t need this. Okay, I’m hangry. That’s it. I don’t joke with my stomach.
I not so subtly drop my tray on the table. I want to make noise with the tray but I can’t risk my plate tumbling with my food in it. He raises his head and he’s really cute. I pause, a bit taken aback. I’ve seen him more than once, thrice actually, not that I’m counting, but up close his face is an endowment. I catch myself and clear my throat. He raises a single brow. The nerve!
“This is my spot!” I say, but immediately it hits me that I sound like a kid. My hands are actually folded across my chest. He drops his brow as if what I said doesn’t mean anything and smiles.
“My bad,” he stretches his hand to me. “Aiden. Can I share your spot with you, gorgeous?” I look around and notice that there are many empty spots around. So why did he choose my spot?
“This is my spot,” I say, ignoring his hand which he then drops.
“I really didn’t think it was a personal space. I thought it was for the public like every other table.” I’m about to reply when I see that he’s teasing me. I sit on my chair, refusing to be bullied by this man.
I place my bag beside me and start eating as Mr Luke aka Aiden presses his phone. He only has a drink before him. Soon he gets up and comes back with his food. Who eats so little, by the way? Sometimes, I order two portions of food when one portion seems too little. He looks like someone who always orders one portion. Not my concern though.
“Is there a problem?” He asks.
“What? Why?”
“It’s… You’re staring at my food and there’s a lot of contemplation on your face…” He trails off.
“Nothing.” I grumble.
“Nothing?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, gorgeous.” He smiles. That was the same name he called me in his little paper. I worry my lip a little for remembering that flimsy event.
“Or… do you want more to eat?” He asks slowly as if hesitant.
“More? What do you take me for? A foodie?” I should stop at this because it’s true that I’m a foodie, but I refuse, so I add, “A glutton?” The smile on his face gets wiped off immediately.
“No no, that’s not what I mean. I’m sorry. Please finish your food.” His concern is unexpected and for whatever reason, it makes me feel bad.
“I’m not mad at you. Just wanted to get back at you for stealing my spot.”
“Okay,” he pauses. “Noted. Vindictive.” He murmurs.
“What?”
“Eat your food, gorgeous.”
“Why? What’s your business?” I don’t know why I’m getting so riled up. Apart from his stealing my space, which technically he didn’t, there’s no reason to be snappy at him. It’s also unlike me. Even my ex received more compassion from me after cheating on me. Aiden doesn’t seem disturbed though. I continue to eat and I think I hear him say, “Good girl.” When I raise my head to his face, it’s blank, except for his upper lip twitching. Great, just great.
—
Mr Luke is quiet all through my journaling even though I feel his eyes on me. As I pour out the last thoughts in my head, I feel a pang of hunger. When I’m done, I close the journal and tuck it into my bag then get up to order a plate of chips. I didn’t eat all day, except for the granola bar I was able to sneak in during a short break. I take my plate and juice back to the table and Aiden coughs.
“Look, I don’t know what your aim is, but I’m not here for it,” I say.
“Did you get my message last week?” He asks, ignoring my comment.
“What? What message?”
“I left you a note.” I momentarily forgot about his little paper last week. Now, I contemplate my next response.
“No. I didn’t get it.”
“Are you married?”
“What?” His question catches me off guard and my drink goes to the wrong pipe. I start to cough.
“Hey hey, breathe through it. Breathe, gorgeous.” He reaches out to hold my hand and even in my coughing fit, I feel it down to my toes. I want to recoil so badly, but I also don’t. I cough a little longer than necessary.
“Thanks,” I say when I’m better. He doesn’t stop holding me. It’s more of a slight touch, nothing intrusive.
“I’m rephrasing the question and this is a warning ahead,” There’s a gleam in his eyes as if he knows the potential effect he has. “Are you married or is there someone serious?”
“You couldn’t even let me finish coughing.”
“Answer the question.” He squeezes my hand. I look at the clock and it’s time to go home.
“I’m going home.” I stand, withdraw my hand from his, pack my things, and walk out. I don’t look back to see his reaction.
…
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