Invisible String Of Love

Memories Of The Night

The very next morning after their secret encounter, Clementine was getting ready for work, but her mind refused to stay in the present. No matter how hard she tried, it kept looping back to the girl from her therapist’s office — the one who had slipped her a letter like a secret meant only for God.

She tried to focus on her makeup, but her thoughts kept drifting to that moment: the girl's quiet sadness when she was ignored, the awkward glances exchanged, the way she subtly straightened her posture as Clemmy neared her table. Why was this bothering her so much? Why her?

Clemmy sighed, brush paused mid-stroke, caught in the memory of delicate features bathed in soft night — the gentle curve of her nose against pale skin, the depth of eyes that faded into the dark, framed by hair that moved like water.

She shook her head, trying to banish the image, but it clung to her — romantic, magnetic, a gravity all its own. With a deep breath, she forced herself to keep getting ready.

As she slipped into her work clothes, a folded receipt tumbled from her pocket. The girl's message. Her number. Clemmy stared at it for a moment before tucking it safely away — unread, but not forgotten — and headed for the garage, where her sleek black car, a birthday gift from her father, waited like a shadow.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, she turned the key and quickly queued up Blah Blah Blah by Ke$ha, blasting the volume against her thoughts. Still, the girl’s face lingered in her mind.

Once at work, Clementine slipped easily into her cheerful side. She greeted her coworkers, letting her smile set the tone for the day. She reviewed the menu with practiced familiarity, double-checked her station — pens, order pads, all neatly arranged — and took a deep breath.

The memory began to fade under the rhythm of routine. She approached each table with grace, a smile blooming on her lips.

“Welcome to Crimson Violet Restaurant. I’m Clementine, and I’ll be your waitress this lovely afternoon,” she said with her usual charm. “When you're ready to order, just give this bell a little ring, and I’ll be right over.”

She placed the bell on the table, making sure it was easy to reach, then drifted back toward her station — professional, but with a part of her still haunted by the girl who wouldn't quite leave her thoughts.

Clementine couldn’t ignore her tendency to please others, a trait shaped by her past. Yet, her encounter with the girl from the therapist’s office—both there and at work—made that instinct dissipate. In that moment, it was as if she couldn’t care less about the girl's feelings or whether her service was bad. She simply didn’t care.

On her break, Clemmy swiftly shed her apron, touched up her makeup, and grabbed her lunch from her locker. As she ate, the urge to call the number the girl had given her grew stronger, and before she could second-guess herself, she dialed. The phone rang, and a familiar voice answered—flat and distant, though with a slight rasp that hinted it might belong to a girl.

"Hello? Who’s this?" The voice sounded detached, almost like she didn’t quite expect a call.

"Hi! Um, can I ask… Are you the girl from the Crimson Violet last night?" Clemmy asked carefully, tidying her lunch box before slipping it back into her bag.

"Oh my... Yes, hi!" The girl’s tone shifted instantly, clearly recognizing Clemmy’s voice.

"Why’d you give me your number? Not that I mind, but... you’re taken, right?" Clemmy’s voice wavered a little, her movements measured as she paced around her cluttered workstation.

"Oh... Tom and I aren’t dating. He’s just... my suitor. I—I don’t really like him, if you’re wondering..." The girl’s words tumbled out in a nervous rush.