She

She sits alone – each day the same. Same table, same order from the menu, same waitress serving the same flavoured latte. You may think, in this modern world of definitions and classifications, that she has O.C.D. or some similar complaint – yet she would disagree. The routine has in fact become nearly ritual in its repetitive nature, but she knows that it will all change one day – hopefully soon – and then she will no longer sit in this empty restaurant, with her latte and pan fried sea bass, day in, day out.

One waitress comments to another one day; wondering where she gets the money from to come here all the time and yet not need to be out working at least some of the time. Though they never see her do so the conclusion is reached that she is a writer – a novelist perhaps – who lives off her royalty cheques, and ponders the world as she watches it pass by the window to her right. The chef asks if she ever pays by card – do the waitresses recognise the name? The response is that no, she never pays by card. Cash in hand every day.

She is their only regular customer – people flit in and out, maybe the odd dish here and there, maybe a round of drinks, but they don't seem to come back – no matter how fulsome their praise of the chef's talents. Eventually they notice this. Perhaps then she is a bad luck omen. A demon to detract from their little enterprise. The mood becomes darker; cooler towards their best customer. Now when she sits she is slightly slumped, their bad opinion of her affecting her mood and posture. Yet she keeps coming back. Relentless.

Acceptance returns eventually; the misgivings forgotten. She is yet again their one and only, their favourite. The smile on her face now though is much more fragile – afraid of being hurt again, she simpers at the waitress, her eyes pleading to maintain this status quo. Her tips increase. She nods to them upon entering and leaving each morning and night.

The acceptance becomes disgust for this weak-willed creature that sits broken before them. Disgust becomes anger. Anger leads to hate; fouler and darker than before. She wilts again like a flower in a fire-storm – but even in a raging inferno there is only so far down one can burn. Those remains can become ash – and float away, or become embers – and smoulder quietly, preparing a raging storm of their own.

The tips stop.

A cup of coffee – brimming with bile and hatred, laced with the waitress's phlegm – is stored in an airtight container instead of imbibed. The next day the food board is in and said waitress tested and fired. The smile on her face, sitting at her table, is one of triumph. The table has turned.

Now the staff fear their patron. Free gifts are delivered; a muffin, a side order of garlic bread – with the announcement that they are "on the house". They remain untouched. Sacrifices delivered as tribute to an uncaring god. The routine remains untouched. She still waits.

A sea-bass shortage terrifies them. The supplier is late, and there are only a couple left in the freezer. Other customers who order this dish are turned away; fobbed off onto another choice. They hope it will come through – the do not wish to incur further unknown wrath. The final day comes. She arrives. Sits. No sea-bass left. A quarter of an hour until she will order now. Ten minutes. Five.

A knock on the back door – the delivery. They are saved.

They ponder on how close they came to their perceived destruction.

She awaits patiently.

The chef develops a plan; cyanide in her latte, arsenic in her fish. They will be rid of their problem forever.

She arrives – 9:45 a.m., dead on time as usual. She takes her place. First the latte will be ordered. 10:05 she approaches the till and places her order. She returns to her seat. 10:08 the latte approaches.

Just as she raises it her wait is over. In he walks. Tall, blonde, his short hair styled perfectly, his suit freshly pressed. He glances about the restaurant. The latte is poised at her lips; not yet drunk of, and as their eyes meet lowered untouched.

A smile passes between them.

She rises.

She leaves.

The routine is broken; the horror, disgust, fear, superstition should leave with her... yet they remain. The restaurant closes. The staff move on – defeated.

Why was she waiting? That's a different story.