~600 words
Dave
By Allie
"And what kind of pie would you like, sir?"
It wasn't a question he was used to having himself asked by a man, but his waiter in this small diner today was. Hutch found himself tongue-tied, wanting to ask why a man about his age who looked nothing like your average waiter was taking his order—and so professionally, too.
Obviously, Hutch couldn't ask that.
"Uh—what would you recommend?"
"The cherry pie's to die for." The dark-haired waiter flashed him a smile. "You'll love it. With whipped cream on top? What do you say?"
The waiter wore the nametag "Dave." He had short-cropped curly hair and a clean white apron tied over his tight jeans and red t-shirt. He also didn't look like the sort of person to be a waiter, somehow. He looked more like a soldier to Hutch.
Hutch was curious about his story, but didn't ask. You couldn't just ask people's stories because you were curious.
Hutch wanted to say, "Order two. Sit down and join me!" But he couldn't. He was lonely on his long trip to California, but that didn't mean you could ask strangers to tell you their life stories. Besides, even if it had been appropriate, he'd never get the words out properly.
Instead, he just nodded.
The man gave him an approving nod, looking pleased with himself. "You won't be sorry. I'll bring it right over."
Five minutes later, Hutch was scraping his empty plate, trying to get a few more crumbs and the last smear of pie filling. It was the best pie he'd eaten in years.
The waiter moved by, carrying a tray with some dirty dishes on it.
Hutch raised a hand. "Excuse me. Can I have another cup of coffee?"
The waiter moved back to his table smoothly. "Anything else?" He slid the empty pie plate onto his tray, picked up a crumpled napkin and a fork and cast Hutch an enquiring glance.
"No, thank you," said Hutch. Hutch watched the smooth movements of that hairy hand.
"Did you like the pie?" Dave gave him a friendly smile.
Hutch nodded. "It was great."
"Yeah, isn't it? I can never eat less than two pieces. I admire your restraint!"
Hutch smiled and shrugged, not sure how to respond to that.
"Anything else?" asked Dave.
Hutch shook his head, still feeling tongue-tied.
"All right, I'll bring your bill."
"Thank you." Hutch looked up and smiled into the man's eyes, wanting to show he meant it.
Blue eyes blinked, looking almost startled; then Dave gave Hutch a gleaming, white smile in return. "You're welcome." He nodded to Hutch once and moved away, carrying the tray. He returned shortly with the coffee and a bill, topped Hutch's coffee cup up, and moved away again.
Hutch calculated, decided he should give at least twenty-five percent tip, and then upped it to thirty. Dave had done a good job as his waiter. Hutch left it carefully under the sugar, arranged just so. He slid his legs from under the awkwardly close booth (but then most booths seemed awkwardly close to him with his long legs), went to the counter, and paid.
Hutch started to leave, glancing back at his table. Dave was there, cleaning it up.
"Thank you," said Dave, looking up and giving him a smile. Hutch returned the smile, walked out to his car, and continued his drive to the sea.
As he drove, he wondered why Dave was working in a greasy spoon that had the world's best pie and what his story was. Hutch didn't suppose he'd ever find out. It made him feel a little sad. He'd probably never see the mysterious Dave again.