The guys razzed me about it for the rest of the afternoon.
I didn’t give a shit.
Saturday, we ordered pizza.
Standing order.
Same as always.
I almost forgot to tell her about it but caught myself before end of day Friday.
She still made dessert.
Red Jell-O cups with fresh whipped cream on top.
Simple, old-school.Perfect.
And what does she leave at the end of the buffet table? A little basket full of hard candies and bubblegum.
It just had to be bubblegum.
Sunday comes and goes.
We open early, knock out what needs doing, then shut down at noon like always.
No lunch.
No clatter of dishes.
No smell of something warm drifting through the mill.
And goddamn it—I miss her.
Not just the food, though that’s part of it.
It’s the quiet competence she brings with her.
The faint scent of summer and bubblegum that lingers in the air when she’s near.
Making me think of sunshine despite the bleak cold outside.
The way she moves through the space.
Like she belongs here.
Like without any rhyme or reason, she just fits into the rhythm of this place.
The low hum of her voice when she talks to the guys, steady and calm, like she smooths the rough edges just by being present.
The place feels louder without her.Harsher.
Too empty.
It hits me then how fast time is moving.
Willow’s second week slips by before I’m ready for it.
More homemade lunches.
