"But the timing. Always 1:15. Never 1:14, never 1:16." Ann's fingers had resumed their tapping against the order pad. "And that first day, then pulling me over the next morning, then back here again…."
"Some guys are creatures of habit. And the traffic stop was just a coincidence." Miriam glanced over at Marcus, who had taken a seat in the waiting area, his eyes never leaving Ann. "Besides, he tips well, right? And he's not grabby or creepy like some customers. I think you should count yourself lucky."
“I guess so.”
But there was something about the constancy of his gaze that felt more invasive than a wandering hand ever could. Ann nodded distractedly, moving to clear a recently vacated table in her section. The sooner she cleaned it, the sooner Marcus would be seated.
As she wiped down the table, she felt his eyes on her back—a tangible weight between her shoulder blades. She'd once found his attention thrilling. Now, as it continued day after day, minute after precise minute, something about it felt less like admiration and more like… surveillance.
The hostess approached with Marcus in tow. "Table for one," she announced, setting down a menu with more force than necessary. Ann suspected the hostess didn't appreciate being overridden about the seating arrangement.
"Officer Hale," Ann said, the name sticking slightly in her throat. "Nice to see you again."
"Ann." He smiled, transforming his features from severe to almost charming. Almost. "How are you today?"
"Fine, thank you." The script was the same each day. "Coffee, black with one sugar?"
"You remember." His smile deepened, as if pleased by this evidence of her attention. "Yes, please."
As Ann turned toward the coffee station, a commotion erupted from table twenty. A red-faced man in an expensive suit was gesturing angrily at his plate, his voice carrying across the restaurant.
"This is raw! Completely raw in the middle! Are you trying to poison me?"
Ann detoured smoothly, approaching the table with her professional smile firmly in place. "I'm so sorry about that, sir. Let me take this back to the kitchen immediately."
"Sorry doesn't cut it!" The man's voice rose further, attracting stares from nearby diners. "I'm on a tight schedule. I don't have time for incompetence."
"Of course, sir. I'll have Chef rush a new order for you." Ann maintained her calm tone despite the man's increasing volume. "And we'll certainly remove this from your bill."
"You're damn right you will!" He pushed the plate toward her, causing some of the sauce to slosh onto the tablecloth.
Ann was acutely aware of Marcus watching this exchange, his gaze a physical pressure on her skin. She handled the plate carefully, apologized once more, and retreated to the kitchen, feeling Marcus's eyes tracking her all the way to the swinging door.
In the kitchen's relative safety, she exhaled shakily.
"Problems?" Chef Cho asked, eyeing the returned plate.
"Table twenty says it's raw." Ann set down the offending steak, which looked perfectly medium-rare to her experienced eye.
Chef Cho prodded it with a knife, face impassive. "Customer's always right," she said flatly, though her expression suggested the opposite. "I'll make another, well-done this time."
When Ann returned to the dining room, Marcus's coffee was her priority. As she set the cup before him, she noticed anew how he had positioned himself—back to the wall, facing both her section and the front entrance. It was a positioning she'd seen him take each visit, a detail she'd mentally filed away alongside his consistent arrival time and coffee order.
"Thank you," he said, his eyes never leaving her face. "Everything okay with that table?"
"Just a cooking preference issue." Ann's smile felt stretched across her face. "Can I get you anything else?"
"Just the coffee for now." The same answer as always. He never ordered food; that was only the first time. Now, he just nursed the single coffee for exactly 45 minutes.
As Ann dealt with the angry customer—delivering his well-done steak with profuse apologies, offering free dessert, enduring his continued muttering—she felt Marcus's eyes following her every movement. When she served other tables, when she chatted with Miriam, when she refilled salt shakers at the service station. Always watching, always tracking.
By the time 2:00 arrived and Marcus rose to leave, Ann's shoulders had knotted into tight coils of tension. He paid his check—$2.50 for the coffee, $10 tip—and gave her that same smile that hadonce made her heart race but now made her pulse quicken for entirely different reasons.
"See you tomorrow, Ann," he said. Not a question, but a statement of fact.
Ann's shoulders ached as she punched out for the day, the tension that had accumulated during her shift settling into a knot in her stomach. Six hours of serving, smiling, and feeling Marcus's eyes on her had left her physically drained and mentally frayed. The employee lounge suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in, and she hurried to gather her purse and jacket, eager for the relative safety of her car, her apartment, her locked door.
"See you tomorrow!" Miriam called from the break room table where she was counting her tips.
