Every Friday, He Ordered Two Coffees. One Cup Always Went Cold.
The first time Emma served him, she brought two menus.
“Just one,” the old man said.
Then he ordered two coffees.
Emma had worked at the diner long enough to stop asking questions about people’s habits. She set the cups across from each other and went back to filling ketchup bottles.
An hour later, one cup was empty.
The other hadn’t been touched.
The man paid for both.
The following Friday, he returned at six, hung his navy jacket on the same hook, and slid into the booth beside the window.
“Two coffees, please.”
By the third week, Emma recognized his truck before he reached the door.
His name was Walter. He liked his coffee black, always counted his change carefully, and folded his napkin before leaving.
He never looked at his phone.
Mostly, he watched the street.
That evening, rain had kept the diner unusually quiet. Emma brought him a slice of apple pie.
“I didn’t order that,” he said.
“I know. We have a little extra tonight.”
He looked toward the empty seat.
“Are you waiting for someone?” she asked.
Walter rested his hands beside his cup.
For a moment, Emma wished she hadn’t asked.
Then he reached into his jacket and took out a small photograph, its corners soft from years of handling.
A young woman stood beside a car, laughing at whoever held the camera.
“My wife, June.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“She’d tell you it was the hair.”
He smiled briefly.
“We came here on our first date. I had enough money for two coffees and one piece of pie. Told her I wasn’t hungry.”
“Were you?”
“Hadn’t eaten since breakfast.”
Emma laughed, and Walter’s shoulders relaxed.
“She figured it out,” he continued. “Cut that pie exactly down the middle. Told me she didn’t trust a man who wouldn’t help with dessert.”
They had come back the next Friday.
And the Friday after that.
Over the years, the diner changed owners. The booths were replaced. Their children grew up and moved away.
But whenever they could, Walter and June kept their Friday date.
“She passed away in March,” he said.
Emma looked down at the photograph again.
“I’m sorry.”
Walter nodded.
“I know she isn’t coming through that door. People worry I don’t understand.”
He turned his cup slowly
