THE WAITER'S MIND

THE WAITER'S MIND



Michael had been working at Luna's Bistro for nearly five years, a quiet place with dark wood tables, yellowed lamps casting a warm, muted glow, and the aroma of freshly baked bread lingering in the air. To his regulars, Michael was just the man with the notepad, a flash of politeness who seemed to materialize at tables without sound or fuss. But to Michael, the restaur

had always known he thought differently about waiting tables. To him, it wasn’t merely a job but an intricate dance, a psychology experiment, an art form. His regulars might think he had their favorite drink memorized or their salad preference recorded somewhere. But no, he read people. His mind worked like a clock.

The first table of the evening was a couple, early thirties. They laughed, sitting closer than necessary, exchanging sidelong glances. Michael noted how she giggled when he whispered something into her ear and then pulled her chair closer. He could tell they were new to each other. The first stage of a romance — excitement mingled with nervousness, trying to impress.

The older couple at Table 4 had been coming to Luna’s every Saturday for the past three years, but tonight they were sitting in silence, a bubble of tension enveloping them. They ordered the same meals they always did: house salad for her, spaghetti carbonara for him. Michael noted her tight smile and his furrowed brows. She kept her hands clasped on the table as though bracing herself, and he glanced at hIs phone .

Michael maneuvered through the tables with silent precision. He prided himself on keeping the pace of the dining room steady, like a conductor managing tempo. Every customer had their rhythm, a beat he matched to make their night seamless, a silent partner to their evening. He observed, adjusted, and predicted their needs before they voiced them.

Then came Table 7. The woman sat alone, reading a novel with her chin resting on her hand. She would flip a page, take a sip of her wine, and then fall back into the story. Michael respected this kind of customer.

The wife finally began to talk, her voice low but intense. Her husband looked at her, nodding, his hand reaching across the table. Perhaps they had reached some resolution or, at least, an understanding. They’d look up at him every now and then, but he only moved in when their eyes softened, when they seemed ready to let him fill their

Meanwhile, the young couple had lost some of their initial fervor. The conversation had tapered off, and they were checking their phones. Michael had seen this before, the brief glimpse into real life that came with waiting for dessert. Would they make it past tonight's thrill? He didn’t know,



Finally, as he was clearing Table 7’s plate, the woman put down her book and looked up at him with a faint smile. “You’re very good at this,” she said, her voice soft, sincere. It caught him off guard, but he simply smiled back. In all his years of work, few people had noticed him. People came here to escape, to have their own moments. 



As he watched her leave, Michael thought about how each night in Luna’s was a reflection of something deeper, a gathering of lives unfolding, overlapping, brushing briefly against his own. He knew he’d never be more than the man with the notepad, yet he treasured the glimpses he had into the minds of strangers. The waiter’s mind was his gift — a quiet person.