Table For Two

Every morning, without fail, he came in at exactly 8:13 a.m.

Aarya had been running her tiny café in Bandra for just over six months when she first noticed him. In a crowd of chatty students, remote workers, and backpack-wearing tourists, he stood out. Always dressed in a crisp white linen shirt and a charcoal grey Nehru jacket, salt-and-pepper hair parted neatly, a face that looked like it had seen too much and spoken too little.

He never missed a day.

“One espresso. One green tea,” he said each morning with the same quiet voice, eyes flicking toward the same table by the window.

She started bringing it to him without needing to ask. He would always thank her politely. Drink the espresso slowly, in deliberate sips. And leave the green tea untouched.

At first, she thought maybe it was for someone who hadn’t shown up. But after weeks turned into months, the mystery burrowed its way into her routine. Customers came and went. Staff changed. Even the monsoon gave way to December’s reluctant chill. But he remained. Same table. Same order. Same silence.

Aarya asked her staff. No one knew his name. He paid in cash. Never spoke unless spoken to.

It was a Friday when she finally walked up and sat across from him, her curiosity overceding her caution.

“Uncle?” she said gently, “Can I ask you something?”

He looked up from his espresso. His eyes were a curious shade of pale brown, calm and unreadable.

“You order green tea every single day. But you never drink it. Why?”

His gaze moved to the untouched cup across the table. He didn’t answer right away. A rickshaw honked outside. Somewhere, someone was shouting about a sale.

Then, he said softly, “It’s not for me.”

Aarya offered a small smile. “For someone who used to come with you? A wife? Girlfriend?”

He studied her, the corner of his mouth lifting—but it wasn’t a smile.

“No. She’s still here.”

The air in the café seemed to turn still. Aarya glanced around. A few regulars were chatting over French fries and cappuccinos. No one was paying attention.

“She sits across from me. Every day. Right where you’re sitting.”

Her fingers tightened around the tray she was holding.

“She doesn’t like espresso,” he continued. “She always preferred green tea. No sugar.”

Aarya slowly stood up. Her breath felt uneasy. 

“She doesn’t like when someone sits in her chair,” he added, still calm. “She gets… upset.”

Aarya took a small step back. “Uncle… are you saying—”

“I killed her.”

He said it like it was nothing. His deadpan expression not changing one bit. 

“She wanted to go to Delhi. Take a job. Said we were growing apart. But I didn’t want that. So I made sure she stayed.”

He looked at the cup again, as if remembering her voice.

“I come every day so she knows I haven’t forgotten. I leave her with her tea. And I sit with her. And I remember.”

Aarya’s hands felt cold despite the heat outside.

He reached into his jacket. For a split second, she froze—but he only pulled out a yellowed old envelope. He placed it on the table.

“For you,” he said. “In case she ever speaks to you instead.”

Then he stood up, as neatly as he’d come in, and walked out. No backward glance. No hesitation.

He never returned.

Aarya opened the envelope the next day. Inside was a creased photograph of a young woman with jasmine flowers in her hair, laughing over a cup of green tea. And a short note on the back:

“I should have let her go.”

From that morning on, 8:13 a.m. became sacred.

The green tea was made fresh and placed at the same table.

And though no one ever sat there again, Aarya sometimes thought she saw steam curling up from the cup—rising like a whisper, like a memory that hadn’t quite left.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used