The Regular

Every Friday, same guy, same booth. Orders soup. Tips well.
Says little.
Tonight, his hazel gaze lands on her as she pours his coffee.
I had a dream about you.
Her skin tightens. Desire flickers—quick, stupid, dangerous.
She laughs it off.
He smiles. You were wearing that apron.
Goosebumps.
She’s not sure if they’re good and retreats to the counter,
heart hammering.
After her shift, she walks to her car. Keys out. Door already
unlocked.
Folds the apron neatly on the front seat.
She exhales—slow, deliberate.
Because of what she wouldn't admit.
She'd dreamt of him too.

Dorit d'Scarlett