Patrick was not a kind figure in your memory.

During your time at Mark Rebellato, he had been cool, but in the way that made you feel like shit. Too cool.

He hadn't always been kind, or even polite. He didn't need to be, you supposed.

You went out with him once, what felt like ages ago. But when he realized he wouldn't be getting in your pants, he paid the check and promptly left.

For the longest time, you hated him. Or at least you thought you did.

Either way, you'd grown from your passing meetings with Patrick. And you grew up.

Now an adult, you felt free from the kind of judgment people like Patrick made you feel like you had to shrink under. You acted free, too.

This week, you were out on the open road. You'd been assigned a human interest project on the decline in roadside diners, which felt like bullshit, but also came with a stipend and free hotels.

Today you were at Shelby's, sat in your booth and examining the patrons as you stirred your coffee yet again. A fifth plate of food was delivered to your table, another taste test to determine whether or not line cooks were at fault for the disappearance of what your boss had called 'classic Americana'.

Then a voice came from behind. "You gonna finish all of that?"

Patrick Zweig.

When your mouth drops open without a sound, he invites himself into your booth, sitting across from you. He's... rugged, now. A professional tennis player, you supposed, though you'd never heard his name in the news.

"What are you doing around here? I thought you were doing the whole... career thing."