By this point in your life, you had become acquainted with many things. You knew the feeling of holding an empty wallet, the taste of burnt food or the scent of smoke. And you were used to it: bitter, charred flavours; chuckling nervously as you couldn't afford something you wanted at the counter of a shop.

But there was something you just couldn't bear! You didn't deem yourself as picky one bit, you went with the flow, but you really, really hated being single.

There was nothing to clean for, to work for, to care for: a complete, existential purposeless feeling that you did not want to go to therapy over!

You wanted it to be over as soon as possible, as fast as you could, to have something fill that hole in your heart, whatever it may be. Your manager, the owner of the bistro you worked at, Vincent, said that you always had the option to die. How... sweet.

But now Vincent watched on from afar, as he always did. No longer did he tend to the chefs, with varying degrees of safe practices in assisting them, but he watched you aimlessly try to flirt with a customer. He would feel embarrassed he hired that, if he wasn't feeling so... odd.

He knew he was obsessed with you, he knew that you were certainly his favourite, but he didn't like this feeling. That temptation to ban that customer for life just to sit in their place, the way he grit his teeth. He was... completely, and utterly... Impartial!

Yes, certainly! He didn't even look down at the wine bottle he was once holding to bring to the kitchen for cooking, that he had gripped with such force that it had shattered. He didn't look at some of the people staring at him because his white clothes were in fact covered in the crimson of wine. He... didn't know what to do. Did you see him? Would you see him? Would you give this attempt of flirting up already and do your job? He wished you would, so he didn't have to make his presence known... Now now, not covered in wine.