Drawn by Agent Midnight

Four blocks down the street from my apartment building is a lovely little restaurant that I go to at least once a week, twice when I have exams. Now, at first glance, it doesn't appear to be anything spectacular, so why do I keep going back? Through the dirt-smudged windows, all you can see is pure elegance made from everything plain. The foldout tables are always evenly spaced out and covered with this magnificently rich silk tablecloth that must have put the small joint in the slums for quite a while. On top of the smooth, white silk you should always expect to see a fresh batch of real roses, garnishing all the tables and the front desk where this young woman sits each and every night at around six.

The menus are cheap cardboard, only one or two laminated for safety of funds. On the fresh tables, they sit on top of the less-than-mediocre dishes with the could-be-silvers next to it in precise order according to meal. There's a salad fork, a soup spoon, a couple of knives, and to be quite frank, I only confuse myself more and more as I sit and try to figure out what to use when.

They serve a variety of courses that could possibly appeal to just about anyone. I, myself, go and order the dinner salad and whatever soup they may be serving at that particular time in the week. Granted, it's not like the food itself is anything worth bragging over. It tastes like something you would expect to get off of a shelf in the frozen food section, but I guess it saves the trouble of putting it in the microwave because they do that for you. But I know for a fact that their kitchen is damn near spotless and has a very high ranking when it comes to quality. I know this trait shouldn't be something I'm proud of, but as long as I don't see anything nasty in the food, I'll up and eat it.

My mother would be so proud.

The staff is just a bunch of regular "sweethearts", if you ask me. They're cavity-causing, bright, sunny folks who have the worst possible timing to come bug you at the exact second you don't want to be disturbed. You may have your spoon up to your lips for that first bite and they'll come and ask you how your meal was and if you wanted any dessert. They all mean well, but they also are pretending to mean well because their little restaurant doesn't get many customers. About two weeks ago, I overheard two waiters talking that they may soon have to look for more work because the restaurant "appeared" to be dropping. Have I mentioned? Yeah, nobody goes to eat there. It looks too much like a dump from the outside for it to attract any real customers who intend to make that a hot spot for eating.

In other words, this lot of kids is only nice in hopes that the few customers would come back and keep them in business. Every time I pop up out of nowhere, they all want to pamper me and take me to the "best" table in the house, even though they are all the same. I found out that said table was actually in one of the brighter areas of the place. This one light manages to be three times as bright as all the other ones put together, and I must admit that it is kind of nice to be able to read the menu without squinting.

This little place didn't catch my attention until it was really late and I needed some food. I was more than willing to put up with a low-scale restaurant if it meant that I would get some food into my complaining stomach (oh, how I love study sessions!) before I could go to bed. And the second I stepped through those doors into the soft, air-conditioned atmosphere that I have grown to enjoy, I saw something that I knew would keep me coming back.

On that cold, damp night in February, this beautiful waitress appeared to be all alone in the restaurant, wrapping some extra silverware and laying the fresh out on the tables. Oh, I can still remember how tired she looked as she sat down on one of the loosely padded chairs and scrunched her long fingers into the hem of her apron. Even today, she has the same little shadows under her eyes as she had when I stepped through, but since I haven't seen her outside of the store, I can't tell if it's really how she looks or how the light presents her.

She hadn't noticed me standing in the doorway until the buzzer on top of the door finally let out a low buzz, and then her head turned and she immediately glared at the buzzer like it was some terrible evil. Her hazy eyes cleared very, very quickly and she climbed to her feet with a fake smile. Those curved lips parted for just a second until the sliding door leading to the kitchen popped open and another person made an appearance.

"May I help you, sir?"

The waitress grabbed the tray she had put on one of the tables, and then she disappeared into the kitchen without saying one damned word.

It was too late.

I was drawn.

Each and every time I came to eat, I would see her strolling back and forth... back and forth. Always at the opposite side of the store, too. As hard as I continued to try, I was never assigned to her tables. From the distance, I could watch her safely under the dull glow of the overhead light, and she never really noticed me for more than a second.

It became a habit.

I would sit and order a salad and some soup, positioning myself in just a way that I could see her coming in and out of the kitchen, sometimes propping the trays against her lithe body. Even though she was one of the rare gems of the female race I had ever laid my eyes upon, she wasn't particularly curvy and she definitely wasn't something I was normally attracted to. She still has this subtle beauty to her that makes her stand out when she's with the other female waitresses. They all glam themselves up with makeup and jewelry, their shoes flashy and high-heeled. Little skirts that almost cross the line of being obscene without losing their odd little class. Their hair done up nicely with little silvery clips and scrunchies.

But... she doesn't do that.

She walks back and forth... back and forth... in her well-worn tennis shoes that appear to have seen many, many better days. The colors of her socks can be seen through this massive hole in the side of the shoe, making me smile every time I get to see what new color she has on. Sometimes red... blue... green... purple... and sometimes traditional white. Always makes me smile.

Her jeans are loose and hanging low on her hips, openly showing the world that she wears boxers, not panties. I had down-right laughed as I saw a pair of eyes from a smiley face peeking at me from her little bottom, and she had turned around for just a second and had really acknowledged me.

Acknowledged me by smiling.

Her hair...

It's so beautiful.

It's always done up in a pony-tail, nothing special but keeping it out of her way as she tries to make a living for herself. Her gorgeous hands constantly reach up to push back stray little wisps of golden-brown, tucking them behind her ears with such sensuality it appalls me.

How could I not be drawn to such a person?

She was lovely.

I knew I had to meet her... to hear her voice...

I wanted to be her customer, dammit.

Stop thinking nasty thoughts all you perverts, even though I'm thinking them, too.

Anyway, it seemed like I always missed my opportunity by trying to pinpoint where her section would be, but she always switched around. Fate didn't appear very kind to me when I kept telling that nice girl at the front that I wanted to switch tables, and realizing later on that the pretty waitress was waiting at the table I had been sitting at.

It was a week after "meeting" her when I realized that she knew I wanted to be amongst her assigned tables. She started to flirt, if you could even come close to calling it that, with me across the room when she was tending to her customers like they were gods and needed the special treatment. All the while, I was frustrated, confused, amused, and sipping on my soup. Too far away from her, if you ask me.

Her sparkling eyes would meet mine more and more often as she turned to walk back towards the kitchen, and those cheerful smiles nearly caused me to choke about six times each night. I wanted nothing more than to follow her into that kitchen and kick the chef out so we could be alone.

I held back, though, heh.

Yeah, yeah. She was a stranger.

But a pretty one.

Eventually, the sly woman started to "accidentally" drop things so that she could bend over near my table, giving me a very nice view of her... um... boxer design. Oh, oh. Sometimes she would step so close, strands of her hair would lightly brush against my arm before she walked off like nothing happened.

She never spoke.

But I was drawn.

I tried and tried and tried...

... until I finally realized that I was in her section.

It appeared to surprise her, too, because the second her eyes locked onto mine, this splash of red danced across her cheeks until it looked like she was almost feverish. The only thing I could do was offer up a tiny smile and request a glass of water.

She didn't speak.

Her graceful, shy composure seemed to crumble as she left and came back, her hands wrapped around the water like she was afraid she was going to drop it.

Sing-song it now! Fate!

That's right.

She stepped up next to me and her hand just seemed to uncurl, my glass of water a little too high up for comfort. I don't think either of us realized what the Hell was happening until the very, very, very cold water splashed into my lap and the cup banged against the table. Her long hands shot up to cover her gaping mouth, and for the first time, I saw her next to me rather than across the room.

And I realized that my waitress...

"Oh, sir! I am terribly sorry! It just slipped-"

... was a waiter.

And I was drawn.