2026-09-13, 11:12 AM - Word count:
(This post was last modified: 2026-09-13, 11:16 AM by Haramcha. Edited 1 time in total.)
Oh no. Not here. Just not here. Joe had been sitting in his favourite restaurant for a few minutes when a face he felt unfortunate to have seen before walked in through the door. Which is to say that a pair of legs carrying a body upon which said face sat came in through the door. After all, faces don’t walk. Although, if they did, his would probably have escaped right there and then. Instead, he continued to track the woman with his eyes, just to be sure that she really was who he thought she was. Which might have been a little too apparent, because she met his eyes for a brief second before turning away, nose facing skywards. It was the Thai woman he'd bumped into a while back, prompting a silly argument on the street.
Something about her turning away caused Joe to utter the words that had been his only companion for the night. “Oh no, not here.” Words that should have been heard only by his inner ear. At least nobody who could understand him was close enough to hear them.
The woman, having communicated something or other to the staff who had greeted her, started walking into the restaurant proper. Joe was looking towards the kitchen, hoping that one of the waiters would notice him and come take his order of goulash. Only when he could feel one of the wooden boards beneath his feet reverberate from the foot of another stepping down nearby did he look back up in the direction where the woman had been. Just in time to see her stubbornly sit down at his table, having seemingly teleported past numerous tables while he had been eyeing the kitchen. She practically threw her bag into one of the two empty chairs at the table. “Not here what?!” she demanded.
She must have some kind of super-hearing, Joe regretfully realised. “It’s just that..” he started, plenty ready to utter some nonsense being yet unable to back down. “This is my favourite restaurant,” he finished.
“So what if it’s also my favourite restaurant?!” she hit back.
“But it was mine first.” Joe now had to finish what he had started.
“Was it now! I don’t remember seeing you here before!” Seemed she wasn’t about to let it end either.
“Well I don’t remember seeing you before either.”
“When did you move here anyway?” she demanded to know.
Not knowing but to answer truthfully on the spot, Joe said “a couple of months ago.”
She let out a fake “hah!” clearly having gotten what she was hoping for. “I thought so. I’ve been coming here for a year already. How do you know about this place anyway?”
Joe had had about enough, and decided to call her bluff. “That’s easy for you to say. Why would you come here anyway; your boyfriend bring you?” Clearly not the smartest thing he could have said going by the look on her face.
“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be? How can you afford to be here anyway? Aren’t you just here to pick strawberries or something?!” she shot back.
Joe was just about conscious enough to realise that he had best not start bringing up his work. What little celebrity he had built by this point in time was not something he wanted to bring into the restaurant. If anything, part of what he loved about coming was the fact that nobody seemed to know who he was. At least nobody acted as if they did.
“So, that shut you up, did it?” the woman taunted Joe’s silence, and just at that moment, a waiter who had been hesitantly swarming around their table like a fly around a ceiling lamp finally decided to approach them. The woman, who had been enjoying her victory by looking at the menu looked at the waiter for a moment and proceeded to order Joe’s favourite goulash.
Not again, not again, not again. Knowing that he wasn’t going to win the ensuing battle, Joe managed to refrain from reprimanding her over stealing his favourite word from the menu as though he could never use it again. He looked down at the menu again for a second, now feeling the need to opt for something else, and pointed to a fish soup of sorts that featured on the same page. “For me, this one,” he said to the waiter.
“Ah, at least you’re not copying my order,” she started again.
“When did I ever copy you?!” Joe chomped down on the hook like one of those little fish that he and his friends had caught in the river back home, and he expected her to start with the whole “well, first of all, you came to the same country as me. Secondly, you came to the same restaurant as me. Third, you said it was your favourite when it clearly was mine first”-shtick again, but to his surprise, she didn’t. Instead, they ended up just eating mostly in silence. To Joe’s surprise, the fish soup was quite delicious.
A couple of weeks later, Joe was in a much, much better mood. The team had finally won in the SSL again, and Joe had really made his mark with two assists in the 4-1 victory against Inter London. Eight matches without a win had been unbearable. To celebrate, Joe had gone back down to his favourite restaurant in good spirits. The staff immediately noticed, “good evening, my friend! You look so happy today.” He really did. “Your friend is here too!” His friend? Who? One of his teammates?
Sticking his head in, he spotted the woman he’d been bickering with a few visits ago. Going by the waiter’s words, he couldn’t quite ignore her presence. Might as well say hi, right?
Joe approached her table with a “good evening! Seems the staff think we’re friends!”
The woman practically jumped up through the table, having not seen him enter. Upon recognising his face, she said “friends? More like enemies, wouldn’t you say?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll leave you on your own,” Joe said and looked around to see numerous empty tables.
“Just sit down already,” she encouraged him. “It’ll look weird if you sit down elsewhere, strawberry picker.”
Joe pulled out a seat and noticed that the woman was eating the same fish soup he’d had last they met, before he sat down. “Now who’s copying who?” he couldn’t help it.
“Oh, come on. I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Do I have to be there for you to copy me?”
“You do realise there are only so many things on the menu, don’t you?”
“Sure,” Joe said. Today he really didn’t feel the need to argue too much. After all, Rapid Magyar had finally gotten a win that might just about keep their heads above water. At least they were getting an opportunity to fill their lungs with fresh air before the final few matches. “How do you like it?”
“Not bad at all. Didn’t know what to expect when I saw the colour. Then again, you never do here – they use so much paprika.”
“Right? The red makes you think of tom yam.”
“Yeah, but it’s completely different. Unsurprisingly, I guess,” the girl concluded.
“It’s pretty good. But I really do miss tom yam,” Joe said, not thinking too much about his words.
“So, why is the strawberry picker so happy today?” the woman asked.
Joe decided to just kind of tell the truth in a vague capacity. “My football team won.”
She half-laughed, concluding that men’s emotions sometimes seem very simple. Sometimes they are, Joe agreed, as his goulash arrived.
Something about her turning away caused Joe to utter the words that had been his only companion for the night. “Oh no, not here.” Words that should have been heard only by his inner ear. At least nobody who could understand him was close enough to hear them.
The woman, having communicated something or other to the staff who had greeted her, started walking into the restaurant proper. Joe was looking towards the kitchen, hoping that one of the waiters would notice him and come take his order of goulash. Only when he could feel one of the wooden boards beneath his feet reverberate from the foot of another stepping down nearby did he look back up in the direction where the woman had been. Just in time to see her stubbornly sit down at his table, having seemingly teleported past numerous tables while he had been eyeing the kitchen. She practically threw her bag into one of the two empty chairs at the table. “Not here what?!” she demanded.
She must have some kind of super-hearing, Joe regretfully realised. “It’s just that..” he started, plenty ready to utter some nonsense being yet unable to back down. “This is my favourite restaurant,” he finished.
“So what if it’s also my favourite restaurant?!” she hit back.
“But it was mine first.” Joe now had to finish what he had started.
“Was it now! I don’t remember seeing you here before!” Seemed she wasn’t about to let it end either.
“Well I don’t remember seeing you before either.”
“When did you move here anyway?” she demanded to know.
Not knowing but to answer truthfully on the spot, Joe said “a couple of months ago.”
She let out a fake “hah!” clearly having gotten what she was hoping for. “I thought so. I’ve been coming here for a year already. How do you know about this place anyway?”
Joe had had about enough, and decided to call her bluff. “That’s easy for you to say. Why would you come here anyway; your boyfriend bring you?” Clearly not the smartest thing he could have said going by the look on her face.
“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be? How can you afford to be here anyway? Aren’t you just here to pick strawberries or something?!” she shot back.
Joe was just about conscious enough to realise that he had best not start bringing up his work. What little celebrity he had built by this point in time was not something he wanted to bring into the restaurant. If anything, part of what he loved about coming was the fact that nobody seemed to know who he was. At least nobody acted as if they did.
“So, that shut you up, did it?” the woman taunted Joe’s silence, and just at that moment, a waiter who had been hesitantly swarming around their table like a fly around a ceiling lamp finally decided to approach them. The woman, who had been enjoying her victory by looking at the menu looked at the waiter for a moment and proceeded to order Joe’s favourite goulash.
Not again, not again, not again. Knowing that he wasn’t going to win the ensuing battle, Joe managed to refrain from reprimanding her over stealing his favourite word from the menu as though he could never use it again. He looked down at the menu again for a second, now feeling the need to opt for something else, and pointed to a fish soup of sorts that featured on the same page. “For me, this one,” he said to the waiter.
“Ah, at least you’re not copying my order,” she started again.
“When did I ever copy you?!” Joe chomped down on the hook like one of those little fish that he and his friends had caught in the river back home, and he expected her to start with the whole “well, first of all, you came to the same country as me. Secondly, you came to the same restaurant as me. Third, you said it was your favourite when it clearly was mine first”-shtick again, but to his surprise, she didn’t. Instead, they ended up just eating mostly in silence. To Joe’s surprise, the fish soup was quite delicious.
A couple of weeks later, Joe was in a much, much better mood. The team had finally won in the SSL again, and Joe had really made his mark with two assists in the 4-1 victory against Inter London. Eight matches without a win had been unbearable. To celebrate, Joe had gone back down to his favourite restaurant in good spirits. The staff immediately noticed, “good evening, my friend! You look so happy today.” He really did. “Your friend is here too!” His friend? Who? One of his teammates?
Sticking his head in, he spotted the woman he’d been bickering with a few visits ago. Going by the waiter’s words, he couldn’t quite ignore her presence. Might as well say hi, right?
Joe approached her table with a “good evening! Seems the staff think we’re friends!”
The woman practically jumped up through the table, having not seen him enter. Upon recognising his face, she said “friends? More like enemies, wouldn’t you say?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll leave you on your own,” Joe said and looked around to see numerous empty tables.
“Just sit down already,” she encouraged him. “It’ll look weird if you sit down elsewhere, strawberry picker.”
Joe pulled out a seat and noticed that the woman was eating the same fish soup he’d had last they met, before he sat down. “Now who’s copying who?” he couldn’t help it.
“Oh, come on. I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Do I have to be there for you to copy me?”
“You do realise there are only so many things on the menu, don’t you?”
“Sure,” Joe said. Today he really didn’t feel the need to argue too much. After all, Rapid Magyar had finally gotten a win that might just about keep their heads above water. At least they were getting an opportunity to fill their lungs with fresh air before the final few matches. “How do you like it?”
“Not bad at all. Didn’t know what to expect when I saw the colour. Then again, you never do here – they use so much paprika.”
“Right? The red makes you think of tom yam.”
“Yeah, but it’s completely different. Unsurprisingly, I guess,” the girl concluded.
“It’s pretty good. But I really do miss tom yam,” Joe said, not thinking too much about his words.
“So, why is the strawberry picker so happy today?” the woman asked.
Joe decided to just kind of tell the truth in a vague capacity. “My football team won.”
She half-laughed, concluding that men’s emotions sometimes seem very simple. Sometimes they are, Joe agreed, as his goulash arrived.
