The apartment Shawn occupied considered itself a one bedroom, even if it took a curtain separating the living space from the sleeping area to achieve that goal. When he’d first considered renting it, the landlord admitted, sure, they could replace the missing door, but open floorplans were more in vogue these days and his last tenants had preferred it this way. Shawn didn’t care. It was as cheap of a space as someone could get in Rittenhouse and anywhere else near Center City Philadelphia would be just as expensive, if not more. After tacking up a sheet, he considered his once-and-done-foray into interior decorating complete.

As such, the flat looked more like a transient lived there than an actual, paying tenant.

He stepped over a collection of sheet music and tossed his notebook atop a coffee table that had long since been buried under the weight of books, more sheet music, and other pieces of paper containing scattered thoughts. A guitar had been situated in a stand beside the television and while the living space was too small to contain a full piano, he’d set up a keyboard near the windows overlooking a scenic row of brick houses. Spring had started the trees blooming and the outside temperature had cracked 60 degrees for the first time that week. It was his love for the neighborhood that kept him in the cramped space now for three years. That, and its proximity to work.

The thought of work made Shawn groan. He sat on the couch and sank back into the cushions, staring up at the cracked ceiling while frowning at the idea that he’d be kept from composing for the better part of the night. While he could still hear the gentle strum of notes echoing in his head, it would take at least a few hours of concentration to write them down and Saturday loomed like an albatross, hovering only three days away. “Could call off,” he said, though the statement hadn’t even finished being spoken before he knew that wouldn’t happen. Not on a week where he’d already done cartwheels to get Saturday off. The better option was to spend as much time as he could composing. He’d grab a shower before he needed to head out.

Pushing up from the couch, he wandered to the guitar and brought it back with him to where he’d been sitting. As he opened the notebook again and started adding chord notations in the margins, he strummed them out and adjusted when the melody didn’t compliment the lyrics as much as he wanted. He’d made a dent by the time his phone alarm chimed, telling him he had a half hour before he’d be late to work. He slid in with two minutes to spare, Shawn took a few moments after clocking in to get settled. Within that time, Shawn the musician became Shawn the food server.

Tuesday nights weren’t known for being busy, but that night, the main dining area buzzed with most of its tables occupied. A cacophony of discussions filled the room, making it difficult to hear the manager when he waved Shawn over to talk. “You’re taking station three over from Chase,” he said once Shawn cupped his hand around his ear, attempting to capture the diminutive man’s voice past the hum of background noise.

“Alright. Any new tables in there?” Shawn asked, subconsciously checking his shirt to make sure the back tails had been tucked in.

“No, but Jillian’s swamped. You might go and ask her if you can take anything from her.”

Shawn nodded and immediately scanned the crowd, looking for the familiar sight of his co-worker. While it took several moments of sifting through the sea of people, he spotted her and as he walked toward her, she lifted her head and glanced toward him. He signaled her closer, but Jillian sighed and, exasperated, raised a finger in his direction.

The tall, lanky woman lowered her hands to her sides again and nodded along with her customers, following the steady stream of orders they rattled off to her before politely taking their one-page menus from them. Shawn walked in the direction of the computer they used to send their orders back to the kitchen for preparation. Jillian didn’t bother to look up at him, even when he assumed a place by her side.

“You just get in?” she asked. Her eyes remained set on the monitor in front of her, fingers touching buttons to select food items from each of the screens.

“Yeah, only about five minutes ago, give or take. I’m taking over Chase’s section,” Shawn said.

“So, that means you can pick up a table, right?” Jillian glanced quickly at Shawn. When he nodded, she directed her attention back to typing in her order. “I’ve been seated at 12 and 15. 17’s mine, too, but they’ve had their drinks delivered.”

Shawn glanced in the direction of the tables, placing each of them and surveying the people there while trying to decide between the options. “I can get 12,” he said, but as he opened his mouth to claim one of the other numbers, his eyes settled on Table 17. When he saw the people seated there, his heart jumped into his throat, lodging there and squeezing the air out from his lungs.

His muse sat at the table, talking to another man sitting opposite of him. Whatever they were discussing had elicited a laugh from the coffeeshop patron, and as a smile reached up to his eyes, the object of Shawn’s desire couldn’t have looked more alluring. Shawn felt Jillian tap his shoulder and broke himself from staring in time to see the arched brow of his co-worker. An amused smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth.

“You can take 17, too,” she said. “Just visit 12 first and get a drink order.”

“Sure,” Shawn said, nodding while feeling a host of butterflies take flight inside his stomach. Slowly, he trudged over to his first table, greeting them with a nervous smile and a rehearsed introduction that sounded only half as confident as it normally did. While he gestured with his hands, glancing between faces, he felt his attention being drawn back to the table where his muse sat, still exchanging funny stories with someone – dared he hope only a co-worker? His lips droned on until they reached the end of his speech and when he focused on his customers again, they curtly rattled off their drink selections.

“I’ll be right back with that,” Shawn declared, committing them to his short-term memory long enough to send the list of requests to the bar.

This left his muse and as he approached to take their dinner order, Shawn breathed in deep and released the breath in a slow, measured pace. Straightening his shoulders, he reminded himself he was Shawn the server and while he flashed the coffeeshop patron and his companion a winning smile, he pushed back the litany of emotions afflicting him while he focused on the other gentleman first. “Hello, I’m Shawn and I’ll be taking care of you tonight,” he said. When his eyes flashed to his muse, he gripped tight to his composure. “Do you need a few minutes to decide?”

His muse studied his face, though the same polite smile Shawn felt etched into his expression became mirrored onto the other man. “No, I think we’re good,” he said. Looking in the direction of his dinner companion, he nodded. “After you.”

“Thanks,” the other man said, and Shawn found himself switching mental tracks quickly, trying to keep up with the order being rattled off, though a glance at his muse came in time for Shawn to witness his smile turn amused. Something about the look in his eyes made Shawn’s stomach sink and while he focused on remembering the details of their order, he heard the music of his song play in his head and struggled not to give it a melancholier sound. Shawn had the items typed into the computer before the floor could drop out from beneath his feet.

‘Going to have to tell Dominic not to save that second ticket,’ he thought, submitting the order and gliding to his first table again to do the same with them.

Somehow, his disappointment faded in the mad rush of activity that followed, with Shawn dancing to the manic rhythm of taking orders, delivering food, and offering refills. His muse occupied their table longer than dinner and a second round of drinks, not requesting the check yet and indicating a third round might be requested before they finished for the night. Soon, the chaos died down and left Shawn alone and daydreaming by the bar, strumming an imaginary guitar while his mind wandered down the corridors of the song he intended to play on Saturday night. He didn’t hear the footsteps that approached him, but when their owner cleared his throat, he startled back into reality.

His muse stood before him, and while that fact alone was enough to scatter butterflies again, the presence of that patient, affectionate smile – now directed at him – threatened to unravel him. “I’m sorry to interrupt your jam session,” he said. “I think we’re done and wondered if we could have our check.”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Shawn said, feeling around in his pockets and pulling out the sturdy, black billfold which held his open checks. His fingers fumbled across the pieces of paper – (He smiled at him. He smiled at him. Holy shit, maybe it wasn’t a date?) – and as he pulled out the correct one, he handed it out to his muse. “Sorry about that. I’m a musician on the weekends so it’s constantly on the brain.”

“A musician?” Slowly, the other man plucked the check from Shawn’s outstretched hand and while Shawn saw curiosity dancing in his eyes, it seemed to take him a moment before he asked, “Where do you play?”

“Here and there. Wherever I can get a gig. This Saturday, I’m at a small bar on Sansom, between 18^th and 19^th. They have me there regularly.”

“Do you live around here?”

“Yeah.” Shawn quirked an eyebrow, emboldened by a small, taunting dare to be cheeky. “I was going to ask you the same thing. I see you in that coffeeshop all the time while I’m sitting around trying to make lyrics appear in my notebook.”

“I wondered if that was where I’ve seen you before.” His muse nodded. He opened his mouth and while it looked like he meant to say something else, in the moment of hesitation, he amended his words. “Well, good luck on Saturday. I’ll make sure to tip you well in case the crowd there aren’t as generous.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Shawn felt the words he meant to say lodge in his throat, too, his fingers lifting in a loose salute that his muse exchanged before turning to walk back to his table. Watching the distance between them increase in size, he thought about a hundred questions, wishing he had the courage to issue them all. What was his name? Would he like to come out and listen to some amateur, indie music that Saturday? Or a play soon? He promised Dominic was harmless, even if he was annoying and hell, Shawn thought, it would be nice not to be the only person flying solo to one of Dominic’s plays for once. Instead of saying any of that, he exchanged one last smile with his muse from across the restaurant. Watching him and his dinner companion walk out the door, Shawn clung to the hope he’d see him in the café the next day. Regardless, he’d finally toed a line and next time, he swore, he’d do more than sit and stare at an unattainable man.

He only hoped his muse had the same idea.