Night shifts black

“Guitar mostly, but we all played everything.”

“In a band?”

He nods. I sense that I shouldn’t go any further.

“Not an American band, though,” I tease.

He smiles again. “Actually, yes. Don’t let the accent fool you.”

“So it’s just a fake one?”

My joke startles him, but he likes it. “My accent? No, it’s real. It didn’t hurt my image as a frontman either.”

Another clue. “I’d imagine not. I have yet to meet a girl who is anti-cute-musicians-with-accents.”

“No? I have,” he returns with a grin.

“Really?” I ask, skeptical. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess they were anti-something else.”

This time the grin spreads into his eyes, and I actually catch my breath for a second.

“You’re probably right about that.”

It’s then that I notice it. The ring. My heart stops.

I don’t know how I missed that as well, and it makes no sense that I’m disappointed. It’s not like this is a date, or any hope of a date. This isn’t even about that. Maybe that’s the problem. This is more than that, and the fact that he shares these moments with someone else the other 23 hours of his day hits me harder than it should.

But I don’t ask. I don’t say anything. I actually pretend I don’t see the dark band on his left hand, even though I’m captivated by the way it encircles his finger, a finger perfectly refined by years of creating art. The ring is a work of art in itself, nothing like I’ve ever seen before. It suits him. A musician’s ring. A ring a rock star would wear after marrying the exotic lingerie model most men would kill for.

I say nothing, afraid if I do he’ll think I’m suggesting something I’m not. I’m afraid he’ll be guilty and he hasn’t done anything wrong.

Our breakfast arrives, and I can almost sense our server’s relief that we’re still here to receive it this time. He hovers a little longer than necessary, reciting a list of possible additions to our meal no one over the age of seven should need to review. We assure him we’re fine, and he finally backs away, still watching as if expecting us to disappear before he can return with the check.

“His life will never be the same,” I whisper when he finally accepts that his job of delivering our food is done.

“I fear you’re right,” Luke responds. “Should we apologize for last time?”

“I don’t know. That might freak him out even more.”

“We don’t want that. We’ll just have to regain his trust over time.”

My knife stops cutting. I know I shouldn’t, but I look up anyway.

He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. That was forward.”

Forward? That was amazing.

“I have nothing better to do in the mornings if you don’t,” I reply as casually as possible.

I hate that I suddenly think about the chair. He does, too, and glances over. We both do. We stare at it. We stare at it until he finally shakes his head and closes his eyes. His knife hovers over his plate. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain. He just remembers why he’s really here and it’s not to have breakfast with me. He’s betrayed himself. His chair.

“It’s ok,” I say quietly. “Luke, it’s ok.”

He opens his eyes and this time they’re clouded. There are tears there, threatening. He’s fighting them so hard his knuckles are white on his utensils. I notice that. I notice everything about him at that moment. I’m also powerless to do anything but watch and it kills me.

He laughs, but there’s no humor now. He swats at his eyes and I can’t tell if he’s angry or simply embarrassed. It might be neither. I have a feeling it’s too complicated to classify. I don’t know where to begin, he’s given me nothing to work with, but the one thing I can do is just be. I’m good at that.

I’m quiet. I wait. I put down my fork, mirroring his action. He stares at his, but that I don’t do. I can’t look away from his face. From the pain and sadness and fear. It’s horrifying and beautiful at the same time. His instinct is telling him to run. I watch his eyes trace the path from the chair to the door. His leg has shifted to clear the base of the table. He’s poised for flight, but not in a weak way. He’s not going to run for the exit. He has enough control, enough strength to make a graceful escape. He will form an excuse, maybe coupled with an apology, offer one of his priceless smiles. Then with a calm stride, he’ll be gone. Dignity intact. Strength unquestioned. Another confusing shift for our server.

I can’t let that happen.

“Did you want the jam for your toast?”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not sure why he put it on my side of the table if you’re the one with the toast. Here.”

He hesitates, not sure what to do with me and my resistance. I hold my breath. The chair. The door.

“Sure,” he says finally.

I smile as if I expected that response, even though I still can’t breathe. “I’m going to guess blueberry.”

“Orange marmalade, actually.”

“Really? Ok, wow. So first you ordered eggs with your toast today, then you chose orange marmalade. I may have misjudged you.”

“You assign a lot of value to people’s breakfast choices.”

“We’re in a café. What metric would you suggest?”

The smile returns, genuine this time, and it has a strange effect with the redness still influencing his eyes. It’s haunting, in a way. One of those images that I’m afraid will affect me at a later moment, when I least expect it.

“You’re right. That’s fair. Although I notice you went with pancakes, fruit, and no bacon again.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised he remembers. It was only three days ago.

“I’m pretty predictable.”

“I’d argue that.”

The comment warms me, but I let it go. He isn’t trying to start a conversation; he’s trying to end one.

We stop talking, using our engagement with this cheap breakfast as a shield against another grenade that could destroy everything we’ve just spent three days building. And to think, this used to be my favorite place for tea. Now, it’s my favorite place for pretending to eat pancakes.

I watch my plate clear. Quickly at first, then slower as my stomach fills up. There’s something sad about our pace. I know it will be time to leave soon. Time to go back to my apartment and try to work on the part of my life that doesn’t include the magnetic puzzle sitting across from me. Time for him to return to whatever it is he does now that he doesn’t have music.

The server returns, almost stu

“Can I get you anything else? We have several fresh baked goods. Coffee?”

Luke shakes his head and gives his polite smile. Not the real one. I wonder if he even knows how many he has.

“Thanks, but I’m full. This was great.”

The server nods and turns to me. I offer an apologetic look. “No, thank you.”

“Ok. I’ll get your check.”

“Thanks,” Luke replies. “You sure you don’t want anything else? My treat this time since you paid for the last one.”

I give him a similar response, but decide not to argue about the bill. He’s right. I did cover the last breakfast. And then some.

It’s time.

My legs feel heavy as I force a casual front and push up from the table. I reach for my jacket and find myself struggling with the zipper. I don’t think it’s on purpose, but maybe it is. I don’t want to say goodbye yet. I don’t want him to know that.

“Thanks for breakfast,” I say.

“You’re welcome. Thanks for breakfast on Tuesday,” he responds.

We exchange a smile. More than a smile.

I begin counting the minutes until tomorrow.