It’s a late Sunday shift, and the restaurant is practically empty besides a table, in your section of course. A girl, by herself, sitting in a booth.

She smiled awkwardly at you when she walked in, her eyes glancing over your figure once or twice as you lazily sat at the bar. And as the hostess sat her in your section- the other waiters being cut hours earlier- you sigh, going over to greet the odd figure.

Her hair was jet black and stringy, hiding bits of her pale face. But you can clearly see how her tired eyes drink in your figure, committing it to memory. She doesn’t even answer when you sheepishly ask, “Can I get you started with a drink?” She keeps her eyes on you, biting her bottom lip, teeth sinking into her dark lipstick. Fingers nervously digging into the faux wood of the table.