I fell in love with someone whose job was, essentially, to be nice to me.

When he awkwardly reached his hand over to clear away a plate, I realized that the way I arranged my dishes was in the way. I apologized as I hastily moved them around. In the most genuinely sweet tone, a few shades above a whisper, he said, “Don’t be sorry. Don’t be sorry.”

The way he said those simple six words felt like a gentle, reassuring pat on the head. I could have wept on the spot. It’s easy to laugh off being extremely apologetic as a stereotypical Canadian quirk. At the root of it though, I often felt like most apologies that left my mouth were apologies for merely existing and here was this beautiful twenty-something telling me to not be sorry. It was an innocuous interaction but it stayed implanted in my mind.

After paying the bill (and giving a generous tip), I thought about coming back to the restaurant. The dessert—a decadent slice of ice cream cake topped with torched meringue—had barely settled in my stomach and I was already dreaming about eating it again.

But the thought of seeing the young waiter once more made me seriously reconsider. It isn’t an uncommon occurrence for me to fall in love with strangers. A little projection and a dash of fantasy and, boom, that person stuck in your mind for the next hour, maybe even the next 24 hours. Yes, love probably isn’t the most accurate word for this phenomenon but lust doesn’t suit it either. Still, whatever word you want to use, it’s awkward to think about someone, especially a stranger, like that. In these instances, I like to move on and hopefully never see that person again.

Maybe I’ll come back in a year. Turnaround for servers surely can’t be that long. Restaurants in general seem to have a short shelf life these days, too. But I really do want to try that cake again.