here’s no dinner bell at Maplewood. No assigned seating. But everyone has their spot. Mine was the same for over a year—third table from the window, left-hand side. The one with a view of the garden and just enough sunlight in the afternoon. Mine.

Until Eve arrived.

Eve is early. Always. Gliding in like she’s stepping onto a stage, head high, eyes half-lidded in a way that makes her look like she’s perpetually under soft lighting. She doesn’t say much, but her presence says enough.

She sits where she pleases. And lately, that means my seat.No apologies. No “Do you mind?” She just… occupies. Her shawl flung dramatically over the backrest, her purse sitting on the table like a small, glittering pet.

She’s never acknowledged me. Never asked if the seat was taken. I wasn’t even sure she knew I existed.

Until today.Today, I got there early. Earlier than usual. Determined. I parked myself in my spot with the quiet, stubborn satisfaction of a man reclaiming something that was rightfully his.

A few minutes later, the doors opened.

Eve entered.

She moved through the dining room like a pageant finalist, all graceful smiles and silent greetings, her eyes flicking politely over the crowd as if scanning for someone worth speaking to.

She saw me in the seat. Her face didn’t change. Not a blink. No reaction.

I thought maybe—just maybe—she’d choose a different table.

But no.

She walked right up, turned slowly, and sat down directly across from me.

Across. From me.

She smoothed the front of her blouse, folded her napkin with both hands, then finally looked up.

“How’s your day going?” she asked, like we’d been sharing this table for years.

Her voice was soft. Calm. Pleasant. The kind that floats, doesn’t press. But it caught me off guard. She had never spoken to me before.

I blinked. “It’s fine,” I muttered. “Yours?”

She smiled—not a full one, just the kind where the corners of her mouth like she’s posing for a photo.“Lovely,” she said. And then she looked away, already finished with me.

And we sat there, across from each other. Two strangers, neither quite willing to move. The table suddenly felt smaller than it ever had before.

I picked at my lunch, watching the sunlight hit the window just right—like it used to when I sat here alone.

I didn’t say anything else. Neither did she.But I knew what I was thinking: I had hoped she would pick another table.

And now, I’m not even sure which one of us is winning.

As Stephany the server approached, I kept my eyes on the window.

Out in the yard, the doe and her fawn were back again, chomping on the grass near the birdbath. The little one’s legs still looked shaky, like it was figuring them out with each step. I watched them like I always do, like they were part of my own routine. A quiet scene I counted on—steady, gentle, undemanding.

Stephany set down my lunch tray. “Here we go,” she said softly.I nodded, still watching the deer. “Right by the lilac bush,” I said, mostly to myself.

Stephany glanced out the window, caught sight of them, and smiled. “You’ve got the best view in the house today.”

I didn’t say anything. She set Eve’s tray down across from me next, without a word between them. I don’t think Eve even looked up.

She picked up her fork with perfect posture, like she was at a garden luncheon in a movie. Not a sound from her chair. No comment about the deer. No acknowledgment of me, or the fact that I was already sitting here when she walked in.

I took a bite of my sandwich and glanced at her once. Nothing. She wasn’t smiling now. She just ate—like she belonged here, like she always had.

And I sat there, chewing slowly, trying not to feel like a guest at my own table.

Of course, Eve had to look.

She noticed my gaze out the window and, like she couldn’t help herself, turned her head to see what had my attention. For a second, she was quiet, and I hoped—foolishly—that she’d just leave it at that.But then she asked, “What are you watching?”

Just like that, the peaceful moment was gone—cut through by her voice, soft but intrusive, like a violin string in a room that had been perfectly still.

I kept my eyes on the yard. “That doe and her baby,” I said.

I could feel her looking at me, not the window. Not the deer. Still curious, still nosing in, like she didn’t quite understand the meaning of quiet.

She didn’t say anything. Just sat there, waiting.

So finally, I turned slightly and added, “A family of deer.”She nodded slowly, as if I’d just explained something much deeper. Then she looked back out the window for a moment, but not long. Not the way I did.

It wasn’t hers. That view. That moment.

But she was here now, across from me, poking little holes in the silence.

And just like that, lunch wasn’t mine anymore either.She then declared, “I love animals.”Yea?” I replied, keeping it short, flat. A verbal speed bump, hoping she’d slow down, maybe even stop.

But she didn’t.Oh, they’re beautiful! I love animals!” she repeated, louder this time, like maybe I hadn’t heard her the first time or hadn’t given the proper enthusiasm in return.

I blinked, slowly, still staring out the window—but now the deer weren’t calming anymore. Now they were just an excuse not to look at her.

That’s when it started to click. Something about the way she said it—twice, too brightly, with that far-off glimmer in her eyes.

Maybe she’s not all there, I thought.That strange kind of off-kilter cheer some people wear like a mask that doesn’t quite fit. The too-wide smile. The blank curiosity. The way she’d never once called me by name, even though we’d eaten at the same table all week.

I didn’t answer her that time. Just nodded a little and went back to my sandwich.Let her talk to the deer if she wants to.

The next morning, 8:30, I brushed my teeth and quickly rushed down for breakfast. I wasn’t going to lose the table again—not without a fight. As I rolled into the dining room, I scanned the maze of chairs and trays.

Still early. Still gliding.

But this time, I was already there.

Except—I wasn’t. Not really.

Because as I rounded the final turnenjoy the calm before the inevitable.

there she was. Eve. Sitting at the table. My table. That same seat, same silly grin stretched across her face like she knew exactly what she’d done.

I took a breath. Rolled over to our—err, my—table and propped myself there. The aides saw it happen. They gave each other a small smirk and giggle as they handed me my coffee, waiting—almost holding their breath—for the performan, my signature eye roll.They laughed quietly behind their hands and moved on.

Eve didn’t say anything. Just kept smiling.

Of course she did.As I sipped my coffee, Eve said, “I saw them coming down the hill this morning.”What?” I asked, meaning—what was it that she saw?”The antelope,” she answe Antelope? I thought. What are we, in the froze tundra of northern Europe?