The evening was meant to be simple—almost forgettable in its ordinariness. Just my wife and me, slipping into a familiar restaurant after a long, grinding week, hoping for a quiet dinner that would mark a soft boundary between workdays and rest. We chose the place precisely because it required no thought. The menu was predictable, the lighting warm but unremarkable, the kind of setting where conversation drifts easily because nothing demands attention. We talked about small things at first: errands we hadn’t finished, a story she’d heard at work, the way the days seemed to blur together lately. Yet as soon as we sat down, a subtle tension settled in, like a barely audible hum beneath the music. Our server greeted us politely enough, but her smile appeared practiced rather than present. She spoke quickly, eyes darting toward other tables, shoulders tight as if bracing for impact. When she returned with our drinks, they were not what we had ordered. She apologized too fast, already half-turned away. The food took longer than expected, and when it arrived, one dish was missing a key ingredient. None of it was catastrophic. None of it was worth anger. Still, it was noticeable. I caught my wife’s glance across the table, that silent question couples develop over time: Should we say something? We didn’t. We both knew what exhaustion looked like. There was something fragile in the server’s movements, something that suggested she was operating on the thinnest margin. We ate slowly, speaking softly, choosing patience not because we felt noble, but because it felt right. Even so, an unease lingered, not about the service, but about her—about whatever weight she was carrying that made the simplest tasks feel heavy. Continue reading…
