Fiction

The Wrinkled Memory


He would always have a smile on his old wrinkled face while handing me the menu and we would share a smile, almost conspirational. At times, he’d even help me decide my order & at times, he’d ask me how my day was. We shared a special bond, this waiter and I.

And then, one not-so-fine day, he just wasn’t there. I shooed away atleast 3 other waiters, hoping for my friend to turn up, in vain. There was no smiling wrinkles, no secret smirk and no one to ask me if I thought the coffee was too hot.

However, I still visit, hoping to see him just one more day, just one more time, to tell him that despite his tiny role in my life, he meant something. The old friend of mine.
You may ask why wouldn’t I ask his co-workers about him and I’d tell you, I am too scared to know the answer.

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