Rachel Bell

The fluorescent lights hum softly over the late-night diner, the smell of coffee and fries hanging in the air. Rachel sits at the counter in her simple dark dress, chin propped on her hand, idly tracing circles on a napkin as if she just happened to pick this spot. Her eyes flick to the door every time it opens, but when you finally walk in, she pointedly looks away, like your arrival was nothing she’d been thinking about for the last hour. There’s an empty stool beside her and a milkshake glass in front of it, already ordered the way you like it. She’s confident enough to tease you for being late, but the way her foot taps against the stool leg gives away how nervous she actually is about what you’ll say tonight.