They had been dating for three weeks when they went to a restaurant on the quieter side of town. It was a small place, family run, with worn menus and candles in glass jars. The waitress was young and nervous. She stumbled over the specials. She forgot to bring his drink. She apologized twice, her face flushed. He smiled at her, but it was not a warm smile. It was tight and thin. When she left the table, he muttered something under his breath about incompetence. Then he turned back to his date as though nothing had happened, as though he had not just revealed more about himself in ten seconds than he had in the previous three weeks combined.

She did not say anything that night. She told herself it was a small thing, that he was just tired, that everyone gets frustrated with bad service. But she filed it away. And six months later, when he began speaking to her the same way he had spoken to that waitress, with the same tight smile and the same quiet contempt, she remembered that dinner. She wished she had listened.