I ask him if he wants more coffee and he shrugs, not answering, pushing the empty cup towards me, head still down, buried in a book.
We are used to student types in here. All emo and academic, studying for one exam or another. They treat the staff like dirt; think we are too ignorant to understand what they are 'going through'.
Doesn't bother me none, I studied myself once, before I had kids, before I got a divorce, before I lost my job. Girls gotta eat you know and pride does come before fall.
This guy though, I watch him as he slumps at the table. It's weird, cause he's on his own and has been for the last two hours he's been here, but there is an extra cup set up next to him, extra plate too.
Sure, we get weirdos in here as much as we get students, but this guy, he doesn't look that weird, I mean, he isn't talkin' to himself or nothing, just reading, reading, reading, like his head might explode.
He's good looking or would be if he had a bit more meat on those bones. I watched him walk in, God; he was tall, taller than most I've seen in here and wide shoulders too. Long legs, flat stomach, soft, fluffy chestnut hair. But so thin and so neglected, as if he didn't have anyone who cared.
I've got kids, daughters, big-boned and blonde, all curves and breasts and looking so well-fed and cared for. This man, this boy really, he looks as if no one has cared for years.
I con a plate of food out of Jed, the chef. He moans good naturedly, but he's seen the guy and he agrees with me. Call me soft, but I've always taken in waifs and strays, always fed skinny cats and mangy dogs, given them my table scraps and a little bit of love along the way.
Guy doesn't even look up as I approach the table but he does react when I place the food in front of him. Bright slanting eyes stare up at me, shifting colours and so beautiful. My breath hitches and my cheeks colour like a green girl again.
"What is this?" He looks confused, "I didn't order any food."
"On the house sweetie," I say, resisting the urge to brush a stray lock of hair from that thin, pale face, "you looked kinda hungry."
For a moment, I think he is gonna refuse. People don't like being thought of as charity cases, people sometimes turn their backs on human kindness and, whilst it is their choice, I sometimes wonder why.
Then he smiles and it is like the sun came out from behind a cloud and I feel my face flush even redder, even hotter and he nods at me.
"Thanks," he looks at plate of food as if it is nectar and then, as I turn away, he does the strangest thing.
He takes the napkin from his side and lays it out on the table, next to the empty cup. Then, carefully, he divides up the food, half and half, fair and square and lays it on the napkin. That done, he tucks into his own half of the food, eating as if he had been starving for months.
I watch, wondering if he really is one sandwich short of a picnic, but he didn't seem that way, didn't seem threatening or dangerous, just young, broken and sad.
He cleans the plate and sits back, opening his book again, head down, hair in his eyes. The other food sits untouched as the light dims and the sun goes down.
At the end of my shift, the food is still there and so is he.
I go over and touch his shoulder, feeling it twitch beneath my fingers.
"Are you waiting for someone?" I don't want to pry, but there is something about him, something sad.
"I'm waiting for my brother," he says.
I smile at him then, glad in a way, that he does have someone who cares for him, that he does have someone to love, to wait for.
In the morning, when I come back for the early shift, he is still there, still hunched over the table, still all alone in the all night diner.
Two coffee cups, one empty, one full, food cleared away, table neat and tidy.
His brother never came.
End