1
LILA
The fluorescent lights buzz, tinting everything with a sickly green that makes fresh coffee look poisonous. I check the wall clock for the hundredth time tonight. 2:47 a.m. Thirteen minutes.
My stomach does that stupid flutter thing it's been doing for three months now, ever since he started coming in. Every night at 3 a.m., like clockwork.
"Yo, Lila." Mick's voice cuts through my pathetic anticipation. "I'm heading out."
I look up from wiping down the counter. The manager's son leans against the doorframe to the back office. He’s twenty-seven years old and already looks forty, courtesy of whatever he smokes on his breaks.
"Your shift doesn't end until five."
"Yeah, well, Tanner's having a party. Got girls coming and everything."
"You can't leave me here alone."
He laughs. "What, you scared? Come on, you love this shit. All alone with the drunks and the dockworkers. Bet you make good tips letting them stare at your ass."
"That's not?—"
"Besides," he continues, already grabbing his jacket. "Who's gonna tell? You? Like my dad's gonna believe some nobody waitress over his son."
Fuck. He's right. He's an asshole, but he's right, and I need this job. Even if it means dealing with Mick's bullshit and serving coffee to people who smell like fish guts and motor oil at ungodly hours.
"Whatever. Leave. I hope you get herpes."
"Already got it, baby." He winks, and I want to throw the coffee pot at his head. "Have fun with your boyfriend."
"He's not my?—"
But Mick's already gone, the bell chiming his exit.
Now it's just me, the hissing coffee maker, and the fluorescent lights humming their lonely tune.
The diner feels bigger, all the empty booths stretching out like accusations. “Look at you,” they say. “Twenty-six years old, and this is your Friday night. Pathetic.”
Or is it Thursday? The night shifts blur together like watercolors in the rain.
But then I remember—he'll be here soon. My mysterious 3 a.m. regular with the expensive watch and eyes like Lake Michigan in winter, all cold blue depth that might drown you if you stare too long.
I check the clock above the grill: 2:52.
Eight minutes.
I grab my sketchbook from under the register, flipping to the page I started last week. It's him, or my attempt at him. I can never quite capture the way he holds himself—like he owns the air around him but couldn't care less about it.
The drawing shows a man in shadows, with a sharp jaw and dark hair that's almost black. But the eyes are wrong. They're always wrong. I've tried a dozen times to get his particularshade of blue right, but graphite can't capture how it shifts from ice to ocean depending on the light.
The pencil moves across the paper, muscle memory taking over and adding details I've memorized. The way his suit jacket pulls slightly at the shoulders—custom-tailored but built for someone who moves, who needs room to... what? Run? Fight? The barely visible scar through his left eyebrow that always makes me wonder about bar fights or worse.
2:56.
My heart starts its all-too-familiar yet embarrassing pre-show warm-up. I'm a grown woman. I've dated guys, I've had relationships—okay, two relationships and a regrettable hookup—and here I am crushing on a stranger who doesn't even know my name.
Does he know my name? I wear a name tag with “Lila” in fading letters that used to be red but are now more of a sad pink. But knowing and caring are different things.
2:58.
