Jessica
That was not how I planned my break, but this man has something I can’t explain. His energy attracts me like a moth. It’s an attraction I can’t control. He could give me orders, and I would obey like a dog to its master.
We never got that close before today, and honestly something felt different in many ways.
When he joined me in the back alley on my break, my expectations were as low as my standards, but he definitely did more than meet them.
And now he is sitting in his booth eating pie as if he wasn’t just fucking me against a wall.
I am forced to continue working, pretending it never happened the same way as he is, when the only thing I desire at this moment is to beg for round two.
I remember the first time he entered through the diner’s front door. It was a rainy day and busy as hell. Lucy, the other waitress who usually works with me on Sunday mornings, had called off. I was running from table to table like a headless chicken, trying to keep up.
Her child was sick, and I understand more than anyone the importance of family. Mostly because I know how it is to lose one. But it was rather inconvenient to work a busy shift on my own.
My mood changed the moment he arrived. He showed up with a gloomy look in his eyes and didn’t really look around.
He spotted the empty booth far enough away from other tables with a view of the window and went straight to it.
That was until he raised his eyes to meet mine when I approached him for his order.
It feels like his eyes never left me from that moment.
He always observes me in silence while he drinks his coffee.
I pretend I don’t notice, but that’s all I do. I notice everything about him.
He doesn’t order much, but he is clearly not struggling for money. I am pretty sure his order is based on preference. He drinks his coffee black and always orders a piece of pie. It’s whatever we have on the menu that day. He doesn’t seem picky about it.
Some days it’s cherry; others it’s lemon, but he always takes exactly five bites before he sets the plate to the side and spends the rest of the time watching me work. I have counted them. One by one. In secret, when he didn’t notice I was looking.
He is always early, but not too early, and spends at least half his day here.
Which tells me he doesn’t have much in his life that demands his attention.
During the day, at least. He always seems like he hadn’t slept through the night before.
I wonder if he just works night shifts and simply prefers to have a moment to himself after a long night.
Relaxing before he can eventually sleep.
My father used to do that when he worked the night shift.
Even though it’s been years since he did, I remember how he always had breakfast with my mother and me before he went to bed and I left for school.
Back when life was easier, and he was happy to see me every morning.
I often wonder where that man has gone, because the one living in my house now wouldn’t care even if I didn’t return from work.
I simply seem to be a burden by just breathing in the same space as him.
This man, though. His whole world seems to revolve around me while he enjoys his coffee. He keeps his focus strictly on me, and I will admit it’s nice to feel wanted.
He never asks for a refill on his coffee, and I am pretty sure it is to be polite, because he will always accept one if I offer. He tips more than he should, and his smile can make my knees buckle. It can stop time and make everything silent.
Everyone becomes noise when he is around. It would be an understatement if I said I wasn’t hoping for what happened today—for weeks since the first time I saw him. It has been a thought constantly circling inside my brain. Like a hurricane of bad decisions. But that’s something he will never know.
I have observed him enough that, even though I know nothing about him, I feel like I know enough just by observing him drink his coffee. Which sounds a little stalkerish, but a woman can only do what she can before she appears desperate for a man.
He is dressed in expensive clothes, but his look is almost unkempt.
A worn leather jacket with a pair of jeans and some type of T-shirt is his usual attire.
Almost like it is some type of uniform he picked for himself.
The shades change, but the clothes remain almost the same.
However, I can tell that every fabric on him is expensive, except maybe for the jacket.
Although it looks old enough that it could be an expensive vintage piece and I am ignoring the worth of it.
The rest of his clothes, though, look expensive, and even though he appears as if he isn’t paying attention to his appearance, he is always fresh out of the shower when he arrives.
His hair is almost always still wet, and I can smell the aroma of his body wash even if I am standing a few steps away from him.
His hair is curly and slightly longer on the top, but shaved on the sides.
His pale skin is decorated with beautiful colors of ink—flowers and cobwebs decorate his neck and hands.
He has deep green eyes, a contrast to his pale skin and dark brown hair.
They look like a shade between forest and jade green, almost like a mix of dark and light shades. I haven’t seen such unique eyes before.
He is always polite, and if you told me that man would be as passionate as I experienced him to be a few moments earlier against that wall, I would laugh in your face.
I watch him sitting in his regular seat now, while I continue to work. Still feeling his cum leaking out of me. A little secret between the two of us that none of these people suspect. It makes me feel naughty. I like that. It’s a new feeling.
The day passes quickly between serving tables and getting lost inside my head. When my shift ends, as I am about to leave, my eyes drift to the booth in the corner of the diner in hopes of seeing him for one last time before I head out. He is not there.
As I step outside, though, my curiosity about his location is satisfied, seeing him leaning against his bike.
I make sure to ignore him, not wanting to give him more than I should.
I get in my car, and not even one look is shared between us.
I drive to my house, a short distance that I would usually walk instead, but this morning I chose to take the car because I was too tired to deal with walking.
It’s only a few moments later before I am parking in our driveway and mentally preparing myself to enter my house. My father should be passed out by now. He mostly spends his days drinking, and by the time I am back from work, he is either too drunk to notice or in a deep sleep in his armchair.
Sometimes I find him on the floor between his bedroom and the bathroom; other times he is peacefully napping on the top step of the stairs. Most days feel like I am a spectator while he lets his life slip away from him, and that is painful enough without having to clean up after him.
Today it seems like I am lucky. I notice as I get to the top floor of the old house that he must be in his room. I don’t see him in his usual spots. Good, today was hard enough already.
I thank my luck silently and move to my bedroom, going straight away to the connected bathroom. I turn the water on, pouring some bath soap and salts into the fast-filling tub. A hot bath is the best way to finish this day.