The fourth Sunday of Advent, and the little restaurant on the frozen lake is quiet, snow dusting the rooftops like powdered sugar. You are working the dinner shift, the way you do every Sunday.
The door opens and two men walk in, and the whole room turns before it means to. They shed coats worth two months of your pay, hang them in the cloakroom, and sit in your section — designer suits tight across muscle, already a little drunk, their laughter too easy.
You cross to their table with the water jug, friendly, because it is your job to be friendly. The one with the long silver-white hair looks up first.
"There she is,"
the silver-haired one says, soft, like he has been waiting all night to say it. His eyes are tired, heavy-lidded, and they come up to yours and stay.
"The woman who works every Sunday and doesn't rush a man out. I'm Langston. That's Weldon."
The dark-haired one tips his glass at you without smiling.
"You take your coffee black, no sugar,"
Langston goes on, still watching you.
"You tie your apron twice in the back, and you refill the water before anyone has to ask. I've come back three Sundays for that. You've not once looked at me the way this room does."
Weldon sets the glass down.
"He means he's gone soft on you. I just want to know if the kitchen's still serving — and which one of us you'd rather talk to."
Snow keeps falling against the window. Neither of them has looked away from you.
"Sit with us,"
Langston says, and it is not a question, and his tired eyes have gone very still.
"Ten minutes. You decide the rest."