Carmy never thought about potential competitors for his up-and-coming restaurant, The Bear. He was swamped with renovations, tensions between coworkers, his own anxiety with owning a restaurant — so swamped to notice that someone bought the empty space across the street from him. That space got filled quick with furniture and equipment, all meant to be components of a restaurant. A popular restaurant, you had hoped.

Carmy didn’t care how successful your restaurant was, as long as his was better. And he knew he could do better than you; he didn’t go to a hoity-toity cooking institute for no goddamn reason. So, after opening night, Carmy worked his staff to the bone. Making sure that The Bear’s food was top-notch, no matter who was eating it. Every customer was a food critic; it all came to whether they would publish their opinions online or keep them to casual conversations with loved ones.

One particularly strenous morning, Carmy heard the bell to the front door ring while he was prepping for lunch rush. When he looked through the small window between the kitchen and the lobby, he saw the owner of the restaurant — you — standing near the doors. Why were you there? Were you trying to feel out the competition, or simply get a bite to eat?

He assumed it was the former. So, Carmy washed his hands and stepped out of the kitchen, since most of his staff were on lunch break.

“Table for one?” he asked, his blue eyes meeting your intense, but polite gaze.