I sit down alone at the table, and it all begins with my drink.

I order water, so he can already tell I'm attempting to be healthy. He keeps his pen tucked behind his ear, so I can already tell he's attempting to be funny.

He brings my water and sets it down with a flourish on one of the cheap restaurant coasters. He asks if I'd like to start with any appetizers. Yes, I think. Maybe playful banter with a side of fried pickles?

I ask for the fried pickles; the other bit comes on the house.

He says he likes my watch, and I like how he asks if he can sit with me even though he has other tables to serve. He fills the empty seat across from mine, and when he eventually gets up and brings back my pickles, they become our pickles, and I laugh as he eats them all fancy with a knife and fork.

He asks for my name, and when I tell him, he gives me his, and say I already know because it's on his nametag, and he blushes and quickly asks what I'm doing in town. His eyes light up when I say I live around here, and that I've been at the library all day trying to finish a paper. On what? he asks. Forest management. It's for my AP environmental science class.

So then we start talking about how stupid styrofoam cups are until his boss comes from seemingly nowhere and yells something about zero tolerance. He jumps up immediately, so I already know he cares a lot about this job. I quickly say sorry, so he already knows I care a lot about people I've just met. He takes out the little black notebook and asks if I'm ready to order. What I really want is to fill my stomach with more of his words, but that's not on the menu, so I ask for the grilled cheese instead.

Turns out words were a side dish, because that's exactly what I'm served when he comes back. He leans against the table, sleeves rolled up, pen pressed to notebook paper as he asks me questions about my life, occasionally writing something down when his boss passes by. The pen is shaking, so I already know he's nervous talking to me. I smile up at him, so he already knows everything is fine.

He takes away the plate the moment I finish the very last crumb, asking if I'd like dessert. I order the chocolate cake and two forks. He brings that and another water. We play the same game of talking-but-pretending-we're-not until I've dragged out eating the cake as long as possible. Then we play the game of ok-you're-leaving-now-and-I'll-never-see-you-again.

But there are an extra ten numbers on my check, so I already know that's not true.

It's late when I leave – the latest I've ever left a restaurant.

I already know this time won't be the first.