On a thursday evening she sat in the back alley. Precariously perched a top a pile of abandoned 2x4s haphazardly stacked off to one side, she smoked her second cigarette of the night and the shift wasn't but halfway through. The diner was empty tonight as sometimes seems to happen in the earlier hours of thursday nights. The rush won't come until the kids are good and drunk. By then she'll long be out of coffee and patience as well. She ponders this in passing wondering if her intolerance of the drunk masses of college students is a reflection of her alcoholic condition or just a perfectly natural response. Either way the night drags on and in general she loves her job.
The line cook with the sweet blue eyes is always off on thursdays. She always finds herself wishing he were here. Wondering if he misses her smile on saturday nights when she's at home alone. Wondering if he thinks as often as she does of the intimate moments they've shared. Those eyes he's got, she can't ever seem to shake them from the forefront of her mind. There is something so sweet and sincere in his gaze, but only when she catches the moment just right. Typically he seems to drift through the day in a haze a glaze over his eyes, as if he's really somewhere else behind, in his mind. And then like a spark in a flash for reasons she may never know lucidity prevails over the haze and his gaze is no longer passing through her but reaching in to hold some soft voulnerable piece of her heart. There is something like love in that look and she holds it as long as she can. She feels it like warmth in her chest, like blush on her cheeks, like a tingle between her legs she feels his gaze. They both break into smile as though sharing a private joke. One of them will avert their eyes, and the bond will be gone without a trace. The moments are always fleeting and far between lest their subtle courtship become prey to common knowledge. But oh how she yearns for that sweet smile on a slow thursday night.
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