"Hey, Claud, can you warm me up some turkey?" Todd calls.

"Already? You ate like five times today."

"Pleeeeeeease?"

"Whatever, kid."

I do as he asks then spend the rest of my evening in front of the television, hoping Gibbs from NCIS will help me figure out what to do.

I don't expect Petr to be present the next morning after the events of yesterday and am almost surprised he's at the diner when I arrive. He's in his normal spot. Eileen is adding more Christmas decorations to the cluttered windows, and the dining area is crowded with shoppers out early for Black Friday deals.

Petr catches my gaze and smiles when I walk in, which renders me instantly hyper aware of everything from how warm it is in the diner to the wrinkling of my nose at the scent of the new maple-bacon waffles on the holiday menu. If our exchanges were awkward before, I'm afraid to discover how much tenser they might be now.

I take him his usual. Not one to beat around the bush when I've messed up, I decide to address the issue directly. "I'm sorry about yesterday," I start.

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"Sorry?" Petr echoes, looking up at me. "For …"

"I offended you, I think."

"Really?"

Men can be so stupid sometimes. I roll my eyes at him. If he doesn't get it, I'm not going to expand on the issue. He's puzzled enough for me to think I made it all up in my head, but I can't really explain his sudden departure and the fact we crossed paths twice more and he didn't bother stopping to talk. If I didn't offend him, I don't know what happened.

Fed up with him already, I leave and circulate among the shoppers to take orders and refill drinks.

To my surprise, someone joins Petr shortly after I refill his coffee, a man who is clearly a relative by his similar build and sparkling eyes. He's burlier, close to sixty with a quick smile like Petr and dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans.

I take him a mug and glass of water. "What can I get you?" I ask.

Definitely a relative. His eyes are identical to Petr's, and the skin around them crinkles deeply when he smiles. "Whatever Petr has." He has an accent that sounds Slavic.

I whisk away to grab pie and return.

"This is what you eat?" the man asks Petr doubtfully.

Petr chuckles. "Yeah, Baba. Every morning."

"So you do not come here for the food and definitely not for the coffee," the man peers into his half-empty mug with a frown. "He must be here for you." He turns his focus to me.




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