9:52

by Leslie L. Stevens

9:52 PM. Jessica bounced into the kitchen like she owned it.

Ponytail swinging, sneakers squeaking, still high off sixty bucks in tips and a full week of crushing it. Her tables were clean. Her section was empty. Her stomach was growling.

“Hey Carlos!” she chirped.

The cook didn’t answer. He was deep into breakdown — grill scraped, tools soaking, laser-focused like a man about to escape captivity.

“Can I grab my shift meal? I was thinking the salmon special—unless that’s too late?”

The dish hose cut off mid-spray.

Carlos’s spatula froze over the sanitizer bucket.

“Your… what?”

“My shift meal! I know we’re technically open for, like, eight more minutes, but I figured—”

“Seven,” Jake muttered, not looking up.

Jessica grinned wider. “Even better! So, salmon? Or maybe steak?”

Marcus appeared beside her, low and fast.

“Jess. Server station. Now.”

“But I haven’t—”

“Now.”

He pulled her out like a lit firework. The kitchen exhaled.

Four days later. Same skip. Same time.

“Salmon special!”

Carlos didn’t move.

“Again?” he said flatly.

“It’s sooo good!” she said, practically clapping. “Totally get why it’s the special!”

Nobody intervened this time.

She stood there while Carlos slowly, methodically, pulled the salmon from a cooler that had already been sealed. While Jake re-dirtied a plate. While the closing checklist quietly slid fifteen minutes backward.

“Thanks, guys! You’re the best!”

They watched her leave like she’d just spit in their coffee.

Day eight. Same smile.

“Salmon special, please!”

Carlos didn’t look up.

“We’re out.”

“Oh! No biggie. What about the chicken parm?”

Jake hurled his towel into the sink. The hostess passed by without a word.

“Why is everyone so tense lately?” Jessica asked Marcus during sidework.

He looked at her like she’d asked if air was optional. “Couldn’t tell ya.”

Day twelve. 9:53 PM.

“You know what? Surprise me!”

Carlos set down his rag. Turned.

Not angry. Not tired.

Empty.

“I recommend the door.”

She laughed. “Oh, is that a sandwich? That sounds fun!”

Jake started laughing too. It wasn’t funny.

By day fifteen, Jessica walked into the break room and the silence was immediate.

“Hey guys! What’s up?”

Marcus became fascinated with his phone. Sarah grabbed her purse and left. Danny climbed out the back window.

Later, by the ice machine:

“She’s gonna die,” Marcus muttered.

“Carlos sharpens his knives now,” Danny said. “Like, every night. With eye contact.”

“Even the brunch shift knows her name.”

Day twenty.

“Jessica,” Marcus said, low and careful, “have you thought about eating earlier?”

“Why? I like eating after work! It’s like a little reward.”

“Or maybe not… here?”

Her smile faltered. “Wait, are you guys mad at me?”

Marcus glanced around. Sarah dipped behind the POS. Danny had called in “sick.”

“We’re worried about you.”

“Why?”

“Carlos bought a new knife set.”

Day twenty-five.

9:52 PM. Jessica started her skip toward the kitchen.

Front-of-house froze like a fire drill.

“Tonight’s the night,” Sarah whispered.

“Should we call someone?” Danny asked.

“Salmon special!” Jessica called.

They braced.

Carlos stood at the grill. Spatula in one hand. Shoulders shaking.

Jake had stopped moving. The prep cook had disappeared entirely.

Carlos turned.

“Okay?” he said softly. “Okay?”

Even the guests heard him.

“Twenty-six days. Twenty-six nights of this. Same time. Same smile. Same damn meal.”

Jessica blinked. “I just wanted dinner—”

Carlos dropped the spatula into the sink. Hard.

“You’re not listening.”

Then nothing.

He didn’t have to yell. Everyone got the message.

He turned back to the grill.

Jessica left. Quiet this time. No skipping. Just the sound of sneakers on tile.

Next day. 3:00 PM.

Her section sat empty. She walked in — red-eyed, slow — and headed straight to the kitchen.

“Carlos?”

He was slicing onions. Didn’t look up. But didn’t stop her.

“I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about last night.”

Still slicing.

“I talked to my mom. She used to wait tables. She told me some things I should’ve known already.”

Carlos waited.

“I didn’t get it. I thought I was being friendly. I didn’t know I was the reason people looked so done.”

A long pause.

“You got kids?” he asked.

“No. But—”

“I do. Three of them. Six, eight, ten.”

He leaned against the counter.

“Sometimes, I pull into my driveway and the lights are already off. I missed them. Again.”

Jessica nodded.

Carlos didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

Two weeks later, Jessica had a new rhythm.

She ate at 8:30, during the lull. Started her closing work early. And at 9:50, she took position by the front door.

At 9:54, a family of four approached the host stand.

Jessica intercepted.

“Hey folks! We’re just about to wrap up, but there’s a 24-hour diner a couple miles away. Killer pancakes. Way better than ours, honestly.”

They smiled. Thanked her. Left.

Behind her, Marcus gave a subtle nod.

In the kitchen, Carlos didn’t even pause.

At 10:01, he passed her on his way out.

“Night, Jessica.”

“Night, Carlos. Tell the kids I said hi.”

He didn’t smile.

But this time, he was going home.

END