She poured a coffee she didn't drink. The steam curled up past her chin, faint and insistent, and she stared into the black surface like it might tell her something useful. Her thumb found the rim of the cup and started its slow, mindless circuit—back and forth, back and forth, the only part of her that felt steady.
"Hon?"
She looked up. The old man in the corner—Joe, three eggs over easy every Tuesday and Thursday, always a nickel tip—was holding up his empty mug with a wavering arm. She'd already filled it twice today.
"Right. Sorry."
She grabbed the pot and crossed to him, the coffee sloshing against the glass. Her hand shook. She tightened her grip and poured, a little too fast, and the hot liquid splashed over the rim onto the saucer. She pulled back, nearly dropping the pot.
"Whoa there, girl." Joe set the mug down and wiped his fingers on his napkin. "You got a fever?"
"No." She set the pot on the counter with a dull thunk. "Sorry. Just tired."
"Tired." He squinted at her, his eyes milky with age but sharp enough to see through her. "You been tired for three weeks now. Something wrong at home?"
"No, it's—" She shook her head and smiled, that practiced, hollow smile she'd been wearing like armor. "I'm fine, Joe. Really. Can I get you anything else?"
"Another napkin." He nodded at the spill. "And maybe a new waitress who don't look like she's about to jump out of her skin."
She laughed, a short, breathy sound that surprised her. "You're not wrong." She fetched him a fresh napkin, wiped the saucer, and left him to his coffee. Behind her, the clock ticked. 5:02. Fifty-eight minutes.
She'd been counting since 4:15.
The diner was slow for a Thursday. Two other tables: a thin man in a suit reading the paper, and a young couple sharing a milkshake with one straw. She'd checked on them twice, refilled water glasses no one had touched, straightened the sugar caddies. Anything to keep moving. The moment she stopped, her mind went to him—the rough drag of his stubble against her jaw, the weight of his hand on her hip, the way he'd said her name like it was a secret he was telling himself.
Chris.
She closed her eyes. The sound of it still lived on her skin.
"You planning on standing there all day, or you gonna wipe down the counter?"
Lucy, the other waitress, appeared at her elbow with a damp rag. She was forty-five, three divorces deep, and had the kind of voice that cut through bullshit like a hot knife.
"Sorry." Chris took the rag. "I was just—"
"Thinking. I know." Lucy leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You've been thinking all week. You got a boyfriend or something?"
Chris's hand stilled on the counter. "Or something."
"That's not an answer."
"It's not a question you should be asking."
Lucy's eyebrows lifted. She was quiet for a moment, studying Chris with the kind of patience that came from years of watching people lie to her. "Listen, hon. I don't care what you do on your own time. But if you're gonna keep dropping pots and staring at the clock, you're gonna get us both in trouble with Jerry. So either snap out of it, or tell me what's got you so wound up."
Chris wrung the rag in her hands. The water dripped onto her apron, darkening the fabric. She wanted to tell her. She wanted to say there's this man—older, married, with hands that feel like they were made to hold her—and she knows it's wrong, knows she's not that girl, but every time she thinks about him, her body forgets how to be still. But she didn't. She couldn't.
"It's nothing," she said. "Just some guy."
"Some guy." Lucy's mouth twisted. "Some guy who makes you look like you haven't slept in a week. That's not nothing. That's trouble."
Chris laughed again, but it came out hollow. "You don't know the half of it."
"I know enough." Lucy pushed off the counter and grabbed a tray of dirty dishes. "You be careful, Chris. Some guys are just trouble. And the ones worth it?" She shrugged. "They're usually the same thing."
She walked away, leaving Chris alone with the clock. 5:08. Fifty-two minutes.
She picked up the coffee she'd poured and took it to the back room, behind the swinging door where nobody could see her. The mug was warm in her hands. She pressed it to her forehead, letting the heat seep into her skin, and closed her eyes.
Last night came back in a rush—the way he'd found her after her shift, leaning against the hood of his car in the empty lot, the streetlight catching the silver in his stubble. He hadn't said much. He never did. He'd just looked at her with those blue eyes, the ones that made her feel like she was the only woman in the world, and she'd walked straight into him without thinking.
His mouth on hers, tasting of whiskey and something darker. His hand sliding up her thigh, rough and sure, while she pressed him against the driver's door, her fingers gripping the leather of his jacket. She could still feel it—the scrape of his jeans against her bare skin, the heat of his breath in her ear, the way he'd said her name when she'd pulled back just enough to see his face.
"You know I can't stop thinking about you."
She'd laughed, nervous, because she didn't know what else to do. "That's a problem."
"Is it?"
She hadn't answered. She'd just kissed him again, harder, and let the problem grow bigger.
Now, standing in the back room of the diner with a cold cup of coffee, she wondered if she'd crossed some invisible line. If there was a version of herself that could still walk away, the version that existed before she'd let him press his phone number into her palm. That girl felt like a stranger now.
She took a sip of the coffee. It was bitter and stale. She set it down on the prep table and pushed through the swinging door back into the dining room.
The young couple was leaving. The man held the door for his girlfriend, and she smiled at him, and Chris watched them go with a twist in her chest. They looked easy. Untouched. The way she used to look.
The bell above the door jingled as it closed.
She grabbed the milkshake glasses and carried them to the kitchen, letting the clatter of dishes fill the silence. The cook, a heavyset man named Terry, was scraping the grill with a metal spatula. He glanced up at her, grunted, and went back to work. They had an understanding: he didn't ask, she didn't talk.
She stacked the glasses in the sink and leaned against the counter, watching the second hand crawl across the clock on the wall. 5:14. Forty-six minutes.
Her phone was in her apron pocket. She'd checked it six times since her shift started. No calls. No messages. She'd told him she was working until six. He'd said he'd find her. She didn't know what that meant, and she hated that she needed to know.
The bell jingled again. She straightened, her pulse jumping, but it was just a delivery man with a crate of tomatoes. She let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding and went back to the counter, wiping down the already-clean surface with a rag that smelled of bleach.
"You're gonna wear a hole in that."
Joe again. He'd finished his coffee and was folding his newspaper with slow, deliberate movements.
"Probably," she said.
He stood, leaving the nickel on the table. "You ever gonna tell me what's got you like this?"
"Not today, Joe."
"Didn't think so." He shuffled past her, pausing at the door. "But you take care of yourself, girl. You got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says you're about to do something you can't take back."
The door swung shut behind him. Chris stared at the empty table, the nickel glinting in the afternoon light, and felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach.
He was right. She already knew it. She'd already done it.
The clock ticked. 5:20. Forty minutes.
The dinner rush would start soon, but the diner was quiet. Lucy was in the back, probably smoking. The man in the suit had fallen asleep over his paper. Chris leaned against the counter and let her mind drift back to Robert.
She thought about his hands. The way they looked against her skin, tanned and rough, the calluses on his palms. She thought about the sound he made when she'd touched him—a low, guttural thing, like he'd been holding his breath for years and she was the first air he'd found. She thought about the weight of him, the heat of him, the way he'd pulled her closer even when there was no space left.
Her body remembered. A low ache settled in her thighs, a flicker of heat that made her press her thighs together. She bit her lip, hard enough to taste copper, and forced herself to focus on the clock.
5:28.
Thirty-two minutes.
She picked up the coffee pot again, poured herself a fresh cup, and walked to the window that faced the street. The afternoon sun was starting to slant, casting long shadows across the asphalt. Cars passed, their headlights already on, but none of them slowed.
She didn't know what she was expecting. A sign. A message. Him, pulling into the lot with that lazy smile, like he had all the time in the world. Like he wasn't married. Like she wasn't the kind of woman who would let a man like that into her bed.
But she was. She had. And the worst part was, she didn't regret it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The door to the kitchen swung open. Lucy emerged, tying her apron, and gave Chris a long, appraising look.
"You still here?"
"Where else would I be?"
"I don't know. You've got one foot out the door already. I've seen that look before." Lucy walked past her and started stacking clean cups behind the counter. "You going somewhere after shift?"
"Maybe."
"With that 'some guy'?"
Chris didn't answer. She didn't have to.
Lucy sighed. "Chris, I'm not your mother. But I've been where you are. I know that hungry feeling, like nothing's gonna satisfy you until you get your hands on him." She set a cup down with a sharp click. "And I know how it ends. Not always badly, but never clean. You understand?"
"I know."
"Do you?"
Chris turned from the window. Her face was calm, but something in her eyes must have given her away, because Lucy's expression softened.
"All right," Lucy said. "Just don't say I didn't warn you."
"You won't have to."
Lucy shook her head and went back to the cups. Chris watched her for a moment, then checked the clock again. 5:35. Twenty-five minutes.
The man in the suit finally woke up, folded his paper, and left a few crumpled bills on the table. Chris cleared his place mechanically, wiping down the Formica, her body moving on autopilot while her mind stayed locked on the next twenty-five minutes.
She thought about what she'd wear when she left. The sundress she'd put on this morning, the one with the thin straps and the low neckline. She'd picked it for him. She'd stood in front of her closet, holding two dresses, and she'd chosen the one she knew he'd look at first. She hated that she cared. She hated that she'd spent twenty minutes on her hair, twice as long as usual. She hated that she'd put on the good underwear—the black lace, the kind she'd bought on a whim and never worn—knowing she might not even get undressed.
But she had. She'd put them on like armor, like an invitation, and now she was standing in a near-empty diner, forty minutes from the end of her shift, and her skin was already humming with the possibility of him.
The bell above the door jingled.
She looked up. It wasn't him.
It was a woman she didn't recognize—blonde, maybe late forties, in a linen blouse and pearl necklace. She sat at the counter, three stools away from Chris, and set a small handbag on the counter.
"Coffee, please," the woman said. "Black."
Chris grabbed a clean mug and poured from the pot she'd let turn thick and bitter. The woman took a sip and made a face.
"How long has this been sitting?"
"Sorry." Chris moved to make a fresh pot, her hands trembling slightly. "I'll make a new one."
"No, it's fine." The woman waved a hand. "I don't have long." She took another sip, grimaced, and set the mug down. "You look like you've got somewhere to be."
Chris paused, a filter in her hand. "Just finishing my shift."
"You're a bad liar." The woman smiled, but it was thin, practiced. "I used to be, too. You learn. Or you get found out."
Chris wasn't sure what to say to that. She filled the filter, flipped the switch on the machine, and let the sound of brewing fill the space between them. The woman watched her with pale blue eyes, the kind that made Chris feel exposed.
"You know," the woman said, "there was a time I used to wait for someone, too. Stared at the clock, just like you." She tapped the counter with a manicured nail. "I'd plan what I'd wear. What I'd say. What I wouldn't let myself feel." She laughed, a short, bitter sound. "It's exhausting, isn't it?"
Chris felt her face go hot. "I don't—"
"I'm not accusing you of anything." The woman's smile widened, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I'm just saying—I recognize that look. I had it once. For about six months. Until he went back to his wife."
The words hit Chris like a slap. She fumbled with the coffee pot, her hands suddenly clumsy, and nearly knocked it over. The woman didn't seem to notice. She just stood, left a dollar on the counter for the untouched coffee, and walked toward the door.
"Take care of yourself," she said, without turning around. "And don't wait too long. The waiting never makes it easier."
The door swung shut. Chris stared at the dollar, the steam rising from the fresh pot, and felt her stomach drop.
The clock read 5:48. Twelve minutes.
She didn't know if the woman had known, or if she'd just guessed, or if it was some cruel coincidence. But the words stuck in her chest, heavy and sharp.
She took a breath. Then another. Then she untied her apron, hung it on the hook by the back room, and walked to the front door. Lucy called after her, but she didn't stop.
She stepped outside into the cooling air, the parking lot empty except for two cars. The sun was low, painted orange across the asphalt. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, scrolled to his name, and pressed the call button before she could talk herself out of it.
It rang once. Twice.
On the third ring, she heard a car engine rumble. She looked up. A familiar truck turned into the lot, headlights cutting through the dusk, and pulled to a stop a few feet away from her.
He didn't get out. He just sat there, the window rolled down, his hand resting on the steering wheel, those blue eyes finding hers through the glass.
She ended the call and walked toward him.