Thursdays Are Borscht
She only saw him on the night shift. He was always alone, always dressed the same. He never seemed to smile. But he was polite when he ordered, and while he could never be described as an extravagant tipper, she didn't mind. He was intriguing-looking.
Tonight, however, he looked tired. Very. Pad and pencil in hand, she cautiously approached the booth where he had settled with a sigh.
"A cup of coffee, please." Weary voice. She'd never noticed the accent before.
"Not hungry tonight, sir?" He always ate. Heartily.
"No, thanks." Curtly. But then he tilted his head upward and said, with a quality of hopeless optimism, "Unless you've got any varenyky tonight?"
"What--?"
"Never mind." His brief smile, all the brighter in its rarity, charmed her. "Just the coffee, please. Black." He retreated into his thoughts.
When she returned, he was leaning on the table, chin on his fist, looking half-asleep. The smell roused him. Two cups of coffee on the table, a plate of pastries between them, small balls of fried dough with cinnamon and sugar.
"I didn't order—" he began, but stopped when she slid onto the seat across from him.
"I'm on my break," she said, blushing, picking up a cup. "We can share the donuts."
His mouth crooked up on one side as he looked at them. "Pampushky! How did you know?"
She smiled as he took one and popped it in his mouth. "Our cook is from Ukraine. He loves to cook dishes from his homeland, but 'round here..." she shrugged, "... I guess I'm the only one who he can cook for."
He closed his eyes and savored the taste of a memory. "They are perfect."
She smiled at him over the rim of her cup, mischief dancing in her eyes. "Thursdays are borscht."
"I've been known to eat on Thursdays."