A booth in the back

Thursday night started like something completely ordinary — a casual invitation from a friend — and ended up lingering in my mind like a chapter left half-written.

It was a little after five when Randy texted me.

"Hey, want to grab a bite at the diner? Nothing fancy. Just some company."

There was no pretense, no buildup — just two people trying to fill an empty evening. I said yes before I thought too hard about it.

We arrived separately. The neon of the old diner sign sputtered like it couldn’t decide whether to glow or flicker out. Randy was already waiting by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jacket. When he saw me pull in, his face broke into a smile — the kind that’s genuine but just a little hesitant, like he wasn’t quite sure what kind of night this would turn out to be.

We met in front of the door, and he gave me a quick, slightly awkward hug. His cologne was subtle — warm, earthy — and I caught a hint of it as his arm brushed lightly around me. Then, unexpectedly, he kissed me on the cheek. It was soft, tentative, and it made my skin warm. I laughed a little out of nerves. He looked like he was about to apologize but then didn’t. His eyes lingered on mine for a beat longer than necessary before he opened the door and gestured me inside.

The host led us to a booth tucked into the far back corner — not something we asked for, but it felt just right. It was private, cozy, a little bubble cut off from the rest of the fluorescent world. The cushions were old and sunken in, but somehow perfect. We slid in, and right away, we started doing what we always do best together — talking and people-watching.

There was a couple at the counter — mid-sixties maybe — sharing a plate of fries and watching something on a tiny phone screen.
“Secret agents, clearly,” Randy whispered, leaning in. “Retired, but they still get the occasional call.”
I grinned. “Nah. They’re finally eloping after 40 years of being neighbors. This is their big honeymoon dinner.”

In a booth not far from us, a group of teenagers in matching varsity jackets was loud and chaotic, snapping selfies and tossing fries at each other.
“They’re plotting something,” I said.
Randy nodded solemnly. “A balloon-filled revenge on the principal. One of them got detention for glitter in the hallway. Pink-haired girl’s the brains — you can see it in her eyes.”

A man in a wrinkled suit sat alone at a window table, a stack of pancakes in front of him and three empty coffee cups.
“Corporate spy laying low?” I asked.
Randy smirked. “No, novelist. He writes thrillers set in diners. That’s cup number four — he’s on a roll tonight.”

Then there were two elderly women in floral dresses near the pie case, gesturing animatedly at a crossword puzzle.
“Detectives,” Randy whispered. “Retired but can’t let it go. That puzzle’s a cold case.”
I laughed harder than I meant to, and he just watched me, his eyes crinkling with something softer. “I hope that’s us someday,” he added, voice quieter. “Still out late, still making up stories, still laughing.”

As the evening unfolded, I started to notice things about Randy I hadn’t before — or maybe hadn’t let myself pay attention to. The way he really listened, like each word mattered. How he leaned in slightly when I spoke. How he’d brush his hand against mine on the table, lightly, just once — but not by accident.

We started talking about why we moved here. I admitted, for the first time out loud, “I haven’t really made any real friends yet. You’re… kind of it.”

Randy didn’t say anything right away. He just reached across the table, gently took my hand, and gave it a light squeeze. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “For what it’s worth… you’re not hard to talk to.”

Then came the deeper stuff. He told me about his job — an executive position at a tech firm downtown.
“On paper, it’s impressive,” he said, almost tiredly. “But in reality, it’s soul-sucking. Endless meetings, constant posturing, nobody’s honest. It’s all rush-rush-rush, and for what? A better parking space?” He gave a short, dry laugh and shook his head. “Sometimes I just want to disappear into something simpler. Something real.”

That weariness in his eyes softened when he started talking about his kids.
“Emma’s thirteen. All sass and confidence. Last month she signed up for the talent show behind my back — recited one of her own poems. Forgot half of it halfway through, made up the rest on the spot. Her teacher couldn’t stop laughing. She told me afterward, ‘Dad, you gotta improvise in life.’” His eyes shone with pride.

“And Max?” I asked.
“Max is twelve. My little engineer. Built a robotic dog walker last week. Used an old RC car and duct tape. It actually worked… for five minutes. Then Murphy — our golden retriever — got spooked and dragged the thing into the couch.” He laughed. “Max just said, ‘Back to the drawing board.’”

The hours blurred. We swapped stories about confusing intersections in town, the strange characters we’d met, the food we missed from the city. Sometimes our hands would brush, and he wouldn’t pull away. Neither would I.

At one point, dessert arrived: two slices of warm pie and more coffee we didn’t need. Feeling playful, I picked up my fork and said, “You gotta trust the pie.”
Randy blinked, then cracked up. “Men in Black III! No way. I didn’t think anyone else remembered that.”

We laughed for a long while after that, heads leaning closer together. The diner thinned out. At some point, the server stopped refilling our coffee. Around 3 a.m., she returned to let us know — politely — that they were closing.

At the counter, we paid separately — a silent nod that the night hadn’t been a date. Not exactly. Outside, the air had turned cold. The parking lot was empty. We walked slowly toward our cars, both of us hesitating.

Randy turned to me and gave me a soft hug. This time, his arms stayed around me a bit longer, his cheek brushing mine. Then he kissed me — just on the cheek again, but slower. His lips lingered, like he was trying to decide something mid-motion.

Then — maybe against his better judgment — he leaned in and kissed me on the lips.

It wasn’t fireworks or a swelling music moment. It was hesitant, and I wasn’t entirely ready. I instinctively took a small step back. He stopped, looked me in the eye, and said, “Sorry — I… wasn’t trying to assume anything.”

“It’s okay,” I said, unsure if I meant it.

We stood there for a few more seconds, the quiet stretching longer than either of us seemed to expect. Finally, he said, “Let me know when you get home, alright?” His voice was kind but distant now, like we’d both returned to safer ground.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Will do.”

We parted with a small wave. No grand declarations. No lingering stare.

Just two people, walking back to their separate lives after a night that almost — but not quite — became something else.