He'd been coming to the restaurant for weeks now, ever since... well, ever since he first laid eyes on Juan. The food was nothing special, and the music was too loud... but there was Juan. It was silly, and he knew it. A man his age ogling a waiter young enough to be his son. Certainly, by now he should have been past such nonsense. He couldnt even call it lust: when he looked at Juan, it wasnt with the intent of seeing him naked and quivering. It was with... well, something else. He didnt know how to describe it, but something. Love? No, he dismissed that idea. He'd fallen in love a few times in his life, mostly when he was younger, usually with men who bothered to look at him more than twice. That's all it took, he chided himself, the merest bit of attention and he was smitten. And it took almost thirty years to figure out that in all that time, not once had he felt it reciprocated. Sure, one or two had said, "I love you" -- but never with the conviction that said he was special in their eyes, that he'd been chosen above the others for that moment. That's all he ever wanted... to feel he'd been chosen. And so, as the years passed, he gave up on the idea. He was one of those people who would die alone, in his sleep, surrounded by nothing but his slightly broken down furniture and his CDs and DVDs of music and movies that were twenty and thirty years old yet still his favourites. And he was consigned to it, almost happily. But now there was Juan. And in all the weeks he'd come back, he never even tried as much as eye contact with the waiter. Juan knew that his dinner would be Combo Plate 6 and a glass of water; now, when he arrived, Juan would look and nod, then head off to the kitchen to place the order. He didnt even have to speak anymore. And it felt vaguely comforting, in its way, to reduce his contact to Juan's serving the platter and subsequently the cheque, followed by a "Have a good evening" and the smile he never once dared to look at. Then, one evening, Juan saw him to the door and shook his hand goodnight. He left feeling electrified and guardedly elated. The next time, when Juan asked how his meal was, he looked up and said, "Fine, thank you," and he saw the waiter smile. It was a beautiful smile. Gently, he allowed himself to small conversations. He knew now that Juan was older than he looked, perhaps only six or so years younger than himself. Every week, Juan dutifully sent money back to Mexico for his mother: he was here legally, but he still felt responsible for her. They talked of other things, simple superficial things that almost defined the boundary between waiter and diner. One week, Juan wasnt there, and he gently asked the replacement where Juan might be. "Home sick", was the reply, and he asked they convey his wishes he get better soon. The next week, Juan was back and thanked him for his message. The departing handshake that night was tight and emphatic. Then he arrived to see the message on the door: they were closing the restaurant in a few weeks. Juan was stoic, but he knew the man was fearful at his now uncertain future. He suggested other places Juan might find employment, even the name and number of a friend opening a restaurant himself. Juan promised to call the friend, and once more, the departing handshake was a solid one. The last night the restaurant was open, he arrived at his usual time. Juan was there, delightedly telling him that the friend had offered him a job. For a lark, he ordered Combo Plate 4 instead, and they shared a laugh about it. Juan refused to take his money, telling him the restaurant wanted to thank its long-time customers for their support. Juan insisted on walking him to his car. Suddenly, he was swept up in Juan's arms and kissed like he'd not been kissed in two decades. It took Juan by surprise as much as he, and they parted with shocked but tiny smiles on their faces. "I have to get back to work. Will you call me?" He took the tiny slip of paper. "Of course." Grinning like a puppy, Juan bounded back into the restaurant. And as he drove home, he thought to himself, He chose me.