The bell of the door chimed, cutting through the mid-morning lull of the diner. I wiped my hands on my apron and stepped toward the entrance, automatically shifting into the "customer service" act I had permanently installed in my brain.
"Welcome to Mooney's, what can I get for you?" I asked, though the words died in my throat the moment I looked up.
He was standing there, barely seeming to occupy the space around him, looking like a sketch that hadn't been fully filled in. He was pale, frail and had blonde hair that looked almost translucent under the harsh fluorescent hum of the diner's lighting. He didn't look at me at first - instead opting to stare at the tiled floor with a strange, focused intensity, as if he was counting the tiles to keep himself grounded. When he finally lifted his gaze, his eyes were wide and cautious.
"Just.. a coffee. Black," he murmured. His voice was thin, barely audible over the rhythmic clinking of silverware from the kitchen, and he spoke with a tentative quality, as if he was testing the air to see if it would push back.
I found myself staring a second too long, my finger still pressed against the bridge of my glasses. There was something about the way he held his shoulders - hunched, pulling inward as if trying to minimise the amount of space he occupied in the world. He was wearing a coat that looked three sizes too large for his frame, the sleeves swallowing his hands. He looked fragile, like a piece of parchment left out in the rain, and for some reason, the sight of him made the air in my lungs feel thick and heavy.
I walked over to the coffee station, my movements felt clumsy compared to his stillness. I didn't want to look back at him, but I did, just to make sure he didn't vanish into thin air. He was still there, perched on the edge of a vinyl booth in the far corner, his fingers tracing the rim of the sugar shaker with a slow, repetitive motion. He looked like he was waiting for someone to tell him he wasn't allowed to be there, or perhaps waiting for a signal to leave.
"Here you go," I said, sliding the ceramic mug across the table. I tried to keep my voice soft, the way you talk to a bird that's landed too close to your feet. I noticed a bruise on his wrist, a faint, yellowing smudge of purple that peeked out from under the oversized sleeve of his coat. It wasn't a bump-into-a-table kind of bruise - it looked like the remains of someone's grip.
He didn't look up when I set the coffee down, but he shifted his arm, pulling the sleeve of the coat back down to cover the bruise with a quick, jerky motion. The movement was instinctive, a practiced reflex to hide something he didn't want people to see. I felt a strange, tight pulling in my chest, a sudden instinct to reach out and tell him he was safe here, though I didn't even know who he was. I just knew that the sight of him looking so small in that oversized booth made me feel like a giant.
"Do you.. do you need anything else?" I asked, my voice barely raising above a whisper. I stayed lingering by the table a bit longer than I should have, knowing my manager, Artemis, was probably already glancing over from the pass-through window to see why I was idling.
He finally looked up, and for the first time, he really saw me. He blinked, his eyes scanning my face, pausing briefly on the taped bridge of my glasses and the messy shock of ginger hair that always seemed to lean towards my left. A tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of a smile touched the corner of his mouth, though it didn't reach his eyes. "No. Thank you," he said. He sounded tired, the kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix.
"Kipper! Get those plate's to table four before the eggs go cold!" Artemis's voice boomed through the kitchen, cutting through the peace in the corner of the booth.
I jumped, nearly bumping into a customer walking by as I scrambled to collect myself. "Coming!" I called back, my voice cracking slightly. I gave the blonde man one last lingering look - a quick, hopeful glance - before pivoting and jogging towards the centre of the diner. My glasses shifted again, the tape tugging against my skin, and I shoved them back up with a shaky thumb. As I hurried away, I could feel his eyes watching me, or maybe I just imagined it because I wanted to be seen.
