Stay With Me by Garret Freymann-Weyr

Black, one sugar. Like Raphael, but not Clare, who says putting sugar into coffee is a crime.
    I've cleared away five practically untouched pieces of cake before I start paying close attention to him. As if other facts will explain what the deal is with the cake. Or, more specifically, what his story is. On his middle finger he wears a ring with raised hieroglyphic markings. Right hand, not left, which of course gives me fits to figure out. I can't decide how old he is—much younger than Gyula and who knows what in relation to Rebecca's T., who I'm still hoping will walk in one afternoon.
    He sometimes reads the front section of the paper by folding the pages in half, lengthwise. Mostly though, he studies whatever is in a black binder he carries tucked up under his arm. He keeps a pen and small white pad in his jacket pocket and often makes notes about what he's reading.
    It's a Monday when he sits at one of the tables in the window. Not the one Rebecca was at when I last saw her, but I still take it as a sign of some sort and bring his cake before he's asked for it. Up until then, I've always approached him as if I'm really wondering what he'll order.
    I put the plate down, asking, "Do you want coffee today or iced tea?"
    These are his two usual choices, and he looks up from his perfectly folded paper with a smile.
    "Does this mean I'm predictable?" he asks.
    "It means you know what you like," I say.
    He leans back in his chair so that he doesn't have to look up at me so much. I tend to tower over everyone sitting down.
    "You're right, I do," he says, and something about the way he's looking at me makes my blush start its spread up toward my scalp. What's wrong with me? I smile, hoping he won't notice the change in color.
    "Coffee today?" I ask, firmly putting blushing and other unprofessional topics out of mind.
    "That would be great," he says. "Thank you."
    There are water glasses to be filled and orders to be placed and tables to be wiped and people who need things and very quickly, just as my tables are emptying into the lull between coffee and dinner, I'm bringing him his change. After giving me a smile that doesn't quite meet my eyes, he's gone.
     
    I bring his cake again on Wednesday, determined to withstand however he looks at me. He puts his hand against his heart and says,
    "You remembered."
    I laugh because he looks at once sweet and silly with his head cocked to one side and his hand like that.
    "It's not a job that requires much," I say.
    "Just a certain charming intelligence," he says.
    And there goes my face—up in flames—but this time I know why. He's flirting with me, which would be a lot nicer without the blushing. By the time I get his coffee, I've stopped being such a twelve-year-old.
    "So," he says, when I put his cup on the table. "May I ask your name?"
    "It's Leila," I say. "Leila Abranel."
    I love my last name. It has an elegance that
Leila
by itself can never attain. He looks suitably impressed, and although it's pretty quiet today, I'm away from his table until I bring the check.
    "Leila means 'dark as night,'" he says. "Right?"
    "Yes," I say. "No one ever knows that."
    "It doesn't really fit you."
    I'm never telling him my middle name. Nothing sounds less fitting than Gwendolyn. But I always thought Leila was a good name. For me. And then I see myself as if in a photograph with the caption
Dark as night.
    "Oh, you mean because of the blonde," I say. "But my personality is dark. Very dark."
    "I'm not sure I'd believe that," he says.
    "Don't let the smile fool you," I say, amazed at myself.
    I'm just flirting away here. Dial it down, Leila. He's not that good-looking. And it's more the attention I like than him, which is rude of me. I pull myself into the how-do-you-do expression I use when meeting friends of my parents.
    "My cheerfulness is a façade," I say, glad to have found a place for one of my SAT vocabulary words.
    "No, it's not the smile," he says. "It's ... no, you're