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Had this young guy, maybe early twenties, come in every Tuesday for about two months. Clean-cut, military haircut growing out, always dressed nice - pressed khakis, button-down shirts, sometimes a tie. Always ordered the same thing - chicken parmesan with extra marinara and a Coke, no ice. He'd sit at table 12 by the window, best view of the parking lot and front entrance.
The kid was like clockwork. Five-thirty on the dot, every Tuesday. He'd stride in with nervous energy, scanning the dining room before making his way to that corner table. He'd settle in facing the door, back straight like he was still in formation, constantly checking his phone and watching every person who walked in. His eyes would light up whenever the door chime rang, this hopeful expression washing over his face, then dim with disappointment when it wasn't who he was looking for. Super polite though, always thanked me by name - took him three weeks to ask what it was - always said he was waiting for someone very special.
Me and the other waitresses started placing bets on his story during slow shifts. Sarah thought maybe long-distance girlfriend. Rita was convinced he was getting stood up by dating app girls. But something about the way he'd smooth his shirt when someone walked in, how he'd check his reflection in the window, made me think this was bigger than casual dates. There was too much care in his appearance, too much hope in his eyes.
We joked he was being stood up weekly, but honestly, it broke my heart watching him. The kid seemed genuinely hopeful each time, like whoever he was waiting for would definitely show next week. He'd order his food right away but barely touch it, just pushing pieces of chicken around while his eyes stayed glued to that door. Some nights he'd stay until eight or nine, long after his food went cold. I'd refill his Coke three times and he'd apologize for taking up the table.
Then one Tuesday in March, around six-fifteen, this gorgeous girl actually showed up. Blonde hair pulled back in a neat military bun, wearing a crisp dress uniform with sergeant stripes. The moment she walked through that door, his whole face transformed. He jumped up so fast he knocked over his Coke, sending brown liquid splashing across the table.
They practically ran toward each other and hugged right there in the middle of the restaurant, spinning around like something out of a romantic movie. She was crying happy tears, mascara running down her cheeks. He kept saying "I can't believe you're here, I can't believe you're really here" while holding her face in his hands. Every customer was watching and smiling, some even clapping. Rita actually teared up and whispered "finally" under her breath.
But then she started talking, and I watched her smile begin to fade. Her shoulders tensed and she stepped back, putting distance between them. She kept shaking her head while he talked animatedly, and his expression slowly changed from pure joy to confusion to panic. She reached into her uniform jacket and slid something across the table - official-looking papers, manila colored, folded in precise military thirds.
He stared at those papers for what felt like forever, not touching them, like maybe if he didn't pick them up they wouldn't be real. Then he slowly put his head in his hands and his shoulders started shaking in a way that made my chest tight.
I grabbed napkins for the spilled Coke, thinking maybe I could give them privacy. That's when I caught pieces of their conversation. She kept saying "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Jake" and "I tried to wait, I really tried" and "the divorce papers are final, you just need to sign them."
My stomach dropped. She was his wife, not some girlfriend. She'd been deployed overseas for eight months in Germany, and he'd been coming here every Tuesday because that was their old date night tradition. He thought she was finally coming home for good. Instead, she was serving him divorce papers because she'd fallen in love with someone else while stationed overseas. Another soldier in her unit. She kept trying to explain how lonely she'd been, how she never meant for it to happen, but every word just made everything worse. He looked up at her with these devastated eyes and asked "But what about everything we planned?"
She left twenty minutes later, walking quickly without looking back. He sat there staring at those papers until we closed at midnight. When I finally had to ask him to leave, he carefully folded up those papers, left a twenty-dollar tip on a twelve-dollar meal, and walked out into the empty parking lot. Never saw him again.