The Regular at Table Nine

Every Monday at exactly 8:15 AM, he walked in.

Not 8:10. Not 8:20.

8:15.

He wore a navy jacket, scuffed brown shoes, and always ordered the same thing: one black coffee, no sugar, no cream. He never asked for anything else. Never spoke more than five words at a time. Never smiled. Never made eye contact longer than necessary.

He always chose Table Nine—the farthest table in the corner by the window.

For nearly six months, he was part of the café’s rhythm. He’d sit with his coffee and a small black notebook, the kind with a worn elastic band and folded corners. He would write, pause, look outside, then write again.

And then at 9:00 AM sharp, he’d leave.

We called him “Monday Man.” At least, I did. My name is Rae. I’m the barista, part-time writer, full-time people-watcher. I worked the Monday morning shift, so I saw him more than anyone else did. He never gave a name for the order. Just a nod.

Sometimes I imagined stories about him. Was he an author? A widower? A spy with coffee-stained secrets? He had a softness to him, but also sadness. The kind that doesn’t scream, but sits quietly in the bones.

Then one Monday, he didn’t come.

It was odd, how his absence echoed. The café felt... off. Empty in a way I couldn’t explain. Another Monday passed. Still no sign.

On the third Monday, I was beginning to think I’d imagined him entirely. But at 8:16 AM, the door chimed, and there he was.

Same jacket. Same shoes. But something different in his eyes—tired, red-rimmed. He looked like someone returning from war. Or worse, from a memory.

He gave the usual nod.

I handed him his coffee before he asked. He hesitated, then smiled faintly. It caught me off guard. A shy, flickering smile like someone unused to the shape of it.

He went to Table Nine. Opened his notebook. Wrote for a while.

Then he left.

Only this time, he forgot the notebook.

I didn’t notice until an hour later. I wiped down his table like usual, humming to myself. That’s when I saw it—his black notebook tucked against the windowpane.

I picked it up, fully intending to leave it at the lost and found. But curiosity, that beautiful monster, got the better of me.

It was heavy in my hands, filled with thick paper and inky lines. His writing was messy, rushed, emotional. I flipped through, stopping at a page near the middle. And read.

“I don’t know her name. She always smiles like she’s trying not to. She makes the coffee a little too hot, like she doesn’t want me to leave too soon. I think she writes. I think she watches people. I wonder if she’s watching me.”

My breath caught.

He had written about me.

Page after page, there I was. Described in fragments, metaphors, guesses. My hair. My hands. My awkward laugh when someone asked for oat milk we didn’t have. He noticed.

But the words weren’t just about me. They were about him, too—about loneliness, grief, and starting over. He had lost someone—his wife, maybe. The details were vague, but the pain was loud. Every Monday, he came here to write to her. To remember her. Until, slowly, he started writing about someone else.

Me.

I closed the notebook, heart thudding. What was I supposed to do? Wait for him to come back? Pretend I hadn’t read a thing?

But he didn’t come back the next Monday.

Or the next.

I almost gave up.

Then, one rainy Thursday, he returned.

He looked nervous, like someone arriving late to a performance they didn’t think they’d be part of.

I slid the notebook across the counter.

“You left something,” I said.

He looked at it, then at me. “Did you... read it?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

He waited, bracing himself for judgment.

“I liked the part where you guessed I make the coffee too hot on purpose,” I said, smiling softly. “You were right.”

That made him laugh—really laugh—for the first time. It was quiet, surprised, warm.

“I thought you’d be angry.”

“I thought you’d never come back.”

There was a pause. The air between us had changed.

“Would you like to sit?” I asked.

He looked at me. “Only if you’ll join me.”

So I did.

At Table Nine, for the first time.

Or maybe—just maybe—for the second first time.