It is about eight o clock on a Thursday night and you are the only server on shift at the small café where you work. You glance up from drying glasses to see a tall, broad shouldered young man in a black leather jacket and gray baseball cap push through the door. You step quickly into the back, adjust your blouse, and tuck in the loose ends of your hair while looking at your warped reflection in the stainless steel dish sanitizer.
When you return to the front, he has taken a seat at the counter, leaning on his elbows, and you see that his hands wear black gloves.
"How are you doing tonight?" you ask, handing him a menu. He looks up at you and his deep blue eyes are piercing and tinged with sorrow.
"I'm alright," he replies in a low voice.
"Can I get you something to drink?"
He looks down at the menu. "A beer, please. The most expensive one you have."
He smiles sadly to himself and you start to think he might be a bit of a creep.
You set the bottle carefully in front of him and say, "There you are. Are you ready to order?"
"This will be all, thank you."
"Alright. Oh, let me get you-"
You turn around to grab a bottle opener, blushing at your forgetfulness, but you hear the cap pop off behind you before you get your hand on it. You glance back at him. He's taking a drink and the bottle cap lies on the counter, bent in half.
You stand awkwardly for a second, and then grab your rag and go back to drying glasses because the only other customer in the place is the old man who has fallen asleep in his chair with a cup of coffee and always does.
Once, you glance back at the guy at the counter, and his beer is over half gone and he is gazing at the soda fountain with the most lonely, bitter, heart wrenching look in his eyes you have ever seen. You want to say something to him, because he's attractive, and because you feel like you should try to ease whatever pain he's going through, but everything that goes through your mind just sounds pathetic.
A few minutes later he pulls a bill out of his pocket and lays it on the counter. You take it, giving him a nod, ring it up at the register and hand him his change.
"Thank you," you say, wishing you had worked up the courage to talk to him.
He tucks the money in his jacket pocket but doesn't leave.
"Would you mind doing me a favor?" he asks, fixing you with his sad eyes and making your stomach flutter.
"Sure."
"Do you work tomorrow morning?" He digs in his pocket again.
"Yeah, I work at six."
"There's a guy who comes in for breakfast on Friday mornings-" His eyes take on a far-away quality and he looks through you. "Tall, good-looking-"
"Steve?"
He half grins. "Yeah, Steve." He hands you a ten and a five dollar bill. "Pay his bill for me, will you?"
"No problem," you say, smiling. "Do you want to be anonymous, or should I-"
"No. You can tell him."
"Ok. Have a great night."
"You too. Thank you." He tips his cap to you and turns to go.
The next morning you look up every time you hear the door open, and when the familiar blonde head comes through and sits at his usual table, you give him an extra big smile as you take his order and bring him his coffee.
When he comes to the register and pulls out his wallet, you grab the envelope from your apron pocket and take out the bills.
"You're all good, Steve," you say as you ring up his order and slip the ten and five into the cash drawer. "I had a customer come in last night and have a beer, and then he gave me cash and asked me to pay for your breakfast this morning."
His brow furrows and the corners of his mouth turn up. "What did he look like?"
"Handsome, blue eyes, gray cap, black jacket and gloves."
"Gloves? Did he take them off?"
You shake your head, a bit puzzled as you remember.
Steve smiles sadly, with the same far-away look of the man the night before. Then his eyes seem to spark with a sort of excited hope, and he gives you a grin.
"Thank you very much, Karissa," he says and walks out the door with his face lit with pride and happiness.