A Table for Two in the Morning
Every morning at seven on the dot, he showed up at the café. Never late, never rushed. He’d sit at the little table by the bay window where the morning light spilled gently over the worn-out tablecloth. Ordered black tea and an omelette—two eggs, no bacon, with a slice of rye toast. Always alone. There was something ritualistic about it, strict, almost sacred, like he was clinging to it to keep from drowning in the emptiness.
The waitress, new to this seaside café, thought at first he was waiting for someone. His gaze kept flickering to the door, like it might swing open any second and *she’d* walk in—the one he was really here for. His shoulders were tense, like he was ready to jump up any moment. But no one ever came. Not on a frosty Monday, not on a gloomy Sunday.
After two weeks, she finally asked.
“Should I set another place?”
He looked at her like he’d only just noticed she was there. His eyes—deep, tired, shadowed with a pain that wouldn’t let go.
“No need. She won’t come.”
Said it softly, almost flatly. But there was a crack in his voice he couldn’t hide. Then he turned back to the window where a fine rain was drizzling. Droplets slid down the glass, leaving thin trails, like someone invisible was writing a message—silent, meaningless. He wasn’t looking at the street, but somewhere beyond it, where she wasn’t anymore.
His name was James. Early forties, dressed neatly but not fussy. Always with a book—old, battered, a faded bookmark stuck in the same page. But he never read it. The book just lay there, open, like a silent witness. Like he was keeping it there not for himself, but for the one whose seat stayed empty across from him.
Sometimes he’d murmur under his breath. Whispering something, barely moving his lips. The waitress thought maybe he was talking to *her*—the one who wasn’t coming. Telling her about his day, what he’d seen in town, what he’d been thinking. Or maybe just saying sorry.
A month later, she tried again. Without a word, she brought a second place setting and put it down. James didn’t object. Just nudged his plate aside, making space—so carefully, like he was expecting someone important.
The next day, she made two teas. One with lemon, just a guess, following a hunch. He stared at the second cup, frozen, then looked up at her. And nodded. No words. But in that nod was something alive, almost grateful, like a thin beam of light in a dark room.
One dreary morning, with the wind chasing dead leaves down the street, he finally spoke.
“We always had breakfast together. Even after fights. *Especially* after. It was our rule—sit down at the table, even if words wouldn’t come.”
She stayed quiet, but listened, not looking away.
“That day…” He faltered. His lips trembled, his voice dropped. “I told her I was leaving. She didn’t say anything. Or maybe I didn’t let her. Walked out, slammed the door. Thought I’d be back by evening. But… then it was too late.”
He finished his tea. Stood up. His hands shook as he pulled a photo from his pocket and left it on the table. Old, edges worn. A man and a woman on a terrace, in morning light. Him—younger, smiling. Her—mid-laugh, holding a mug. Their happiness looked real, alive, like it could’ve lasted forever.
“Thank you,” he said, looking at her. His voice was faint, but clear. “This is my last breakfast here. I’m ready to move on. Alone. But not in pain anymore.”
She nodded. Came over, cleared the second place—slowly, like she was saying goodbye to someone important, even without knowing her name.
He left, tipping generously. Not just money—a farewell. Like he wasn’t just thanking her for the food, but for the silence that sometimes says more than words.
The next day, his table was empty. But the waitress still set it for two. Arranged the cups, straightened the napkin, lined up the spoons. Not because she expected him. Because she wanted to keep it—the memory, the quiet, the ritual that doesn’t just vanish.
Because some mornings, it matters not to be alone. Even if it’s just shadows and air beside you. Even if that table’s waiting now for someone else with the same ache in their eyes.
Especially then.