Mona

MONA

If he doesn’t see her on Tuesday, then he knows she’ll be there on Thursday. She’s one of those creatures of habit who has their own little cycle they live within. That’s not that uncommon, in this job. It seems like every third customer is one who comes in fairly regularly, gets one of maybe three or four choices, and makes some joke about being boring or stuck in a rut or something like that. That’s only if they see he recognizes him, though. They’ll try to get away with their well-patterned behavior if they can. He plays along, of course, and never asks, “Again?” or in any way mentions what they seem to be so ashamed of. Though at some point he has to decide between the insult of being thought boring and the insult of not being worth remembering at all. If he’s seen a person every fourth day for three weeks, it’s tough not to recognize them. They almost expect it by then. Dealing with repeat customers, he secretly thinks, is one of the hardest parts of his job.

But not her. For one thing, she hasn’t narrowed the menu down to a handful of choices. With her it’s always the same thing: side Caesar salad and an order of cheese breadsticks, no sauce. And she doesn’t mind that he knows her. She doesn’t even have to say what she wants anymore, and he doesn’t have to tell her the total, which speeds up their transaction but leaves it wide open to small talk. And she’s always alone. She carries a spiral notebook in her huge purse, and she’ll sit down at any open table – always one of the booths, and usually with her back to the counter – pull that notebook open, and start writing in it. He’s never figured out what she’s writing. He’s always wanted to ask, as he’s counting back her change, instead of “How’ve you been?” or “Lovely weather we’re having.” But he hasn’t yet worked up the courage.

There is one other pertinent fact about her: she’s beautiful. She must be turning down dozens of guys wanting to take her to lunch, because she always eats alone. There’s no way he can believe she wouldn’t be getting any invitations at all. Her beauty isn’t like the obvious, fine-tuned beauty of the head cheerleader in high school or a Victoria’s Secret model. She wears a little mascara but no other makeup, and she doesn’t need to. She has very soft brown hair that falls in gentle waves down to just below her shoulders. Sometimes it falls in her face as she’s writing, and she pushes a lock back behind her ear in a motion that is both simple and spellbinding. He’s had a lot of opportunity to study her from behind and less from the front. If she’d only sit facing him once in a while! But he knows she has clear blue eyes and a wide, natural smile that she never seems to be without.

He even knows her name, though by now he can bring her order right over to her table and not need to call for her to get it herself. Mona. How does a person in this day and age, he often wonders, get a name like Mona? She must be named for a grandmother or a great-grandmother. He’s never met someone actually named Mona, let alone someone in their early twenties.

Today is Tuesday. Tuesdays he likes even better than Thursdays. By Thursday, he knows if she’s coming or not, but on Tuesday, all morning and until 12:10 on the dot, when she always comes in, he doesn’t know if she’ll be there today or later in the week, and the anticipation is almost as good as actually seeing her. The bell above the door rings, announcing another customer, and before he looks he checks his watch. 12:09. A little early. But he looks up, and lo and behold, it is her. Mona. She’s smiling, reaching in her purse for her wallet. He starts ringing in her side Caesar and breadsticks, and she starts to pull out $6.72.

“So how are you doing?” he asks, wishing he had something more personal to say.

“Eh, pretty good.” Her face is turned down to her wallet as she counts out bills. When she’s found a five and two ones, she holds them out to him, her smile coming into full bloom. “How about you?”

“Great,” he answers. Better than that, he thinks, though he doesn’t say that. She might ask why, and how could he explain that she’s the reason?

“That’s great,” she says.

He’s got her change now, and she, like she’s forgotten all about it, has to pull her wallet back out of her purse. She holds out her hand, waiting for him to deposit the quarter and pennies into her palm, and as he does his fingers brush her skin for a fraction of a moment. And maybe it’s the contact that makes him bold, or maybe it’s the way he sees her cheeks light up with just a hint of a blush when it happens. But either way, he finds himself saying:

“Mona’s a beautiful name. You don’t hear that very often.”

“Oh.” She seems a little flustered, but not bothered. “It’s short for Monique.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you go by Monique?”

She gives him a little half-grin and a chuckle. “I’m not French.”

They both laugh quietly at that. The receipt has finished printing, and there’s a line starting to form behind her, but he doesn’t care. He takes his time, trying to prolong this conversation as long as possible.

“I like Mona,” he says, handing her the receipt.

“Thank you.” She’s flattered, quiet, and he wonders for a second if she realizes he means both the name and the woman who bears it.

They exchange benign goodbyes – thank you, see you later – and she sits at one of the booths. Facing him this time.

The next time he sees her, he’ll ask her what she’s always writing in that notebook. Hell, he may find some excuse to be near her table, busing the one next to her maybe, and ask today. In his mind’s eye, he sees her smiling, turning the notebook toward him so he can read for himself. He sees her write seven digits on a corner of the paper and tear it off, leaving it on the table for him to find when she’s long gone. He sees their first date, their first kiss, their entire future together, in one split second.

And then he turns back to the line of customers and starts taking the next order.