The Man at the Diner

It's late,
and the world disappears
beyond the rain-streaked windows.

Across the counter,
a man with leather hands
pours another cup.
Doesn't ask if I'm okay,
just slides the blue mug closer.
Steam swirls upward between us,
folding into air and vanishing.

He talks about the weather,
the road home,
how apple pie tastes better
after midnight.

I nod and fake a smile,
grateful for ordinary words,
and the way he doesn't look too closely
at what's behind my eyes.

Sometimes the smallest thing
can change a life—
like the man at the diner
who never knew
he saved a broken girl from drowning
one cold November night.