Yesterday's Gone: Season Three (THE POST-APOCALYPTIC SERIAL THRILLER) by Sean Platt, David Wright Page A

woman must have thought the same thing since Boricio had seen her sitting and wiping cheese from her face three Sundays in a row, always two tables away.
    Something about her spoke to Boricio in a whisper. Her whisper was soothing, worming its way not into his head, but his heart, making Boricio long for more of what he’d never really had.
    Boricio had been with more than his fair share of women, yet those encounters were the sum of his good looks and natural charm; thin and brittle connections that left him disconnected and cold. While he never doubted the existence of true love, Boricio had never felt the warmth of its fire. Something about the woman wiping cheese from her cheek, two tables away each Sunday, made Boricio believe true love could happen to him, and that he, too, could find the happy ending beneath true love’s clear blue sky.  
    In the three or four months before Boricio first saw her sitting just two tables away, he had been living with an edge of discomfort coating his sanity like a layer of rust. This perfect stranger somehow, and quite suddenly, stirred a longing inside him, a longing that promised to soothe the growing shadows inside within.  
    Boricio had no idea how which feelings were in his head, and which were the result of reality. He didn’t even believe in love at first sight — a product of romance novels and people yearning for something more than their boring, stale relationships — yet he couldn’t ignore how from the moment he saw her, the rest of the world seemed to have vanished like the wispy plumes of a dying fire. The vague promise of the amazing unknown was enough to push Boricio to his feet and move him to her table.  
    “Acapulco?” Boricio asked, pointing at a chunk of avocado lying beside a thin wedge of tomato and a quickly disappearing pile of egg; the gravesite of an omelet the waitress had set on her table around four or five minutes prior.  
    She looked up at Boricio, smiling. “It’s the best omelet on the menu.”
    The music of her reply made him long to hear more of her song.
    Boricio sat. “You’re right,” he said. “The Acapulco is the best omelet on the menu, no argument.” He shook his head, almost playfully. “But I never order from the menu.”  
    Boricio volleyed a smile; she batted it back. He said, “The kitchen will make anything you ask; you just have to know what you want.”  
    The girl chewed on her lip, looking up at Boricio with interested eyes. He wanted more, maybe everything she had. For a moment, she looked as though she wanted him too. “And what do you ask for?”  
    Boricio laughed, thrilled she was asking. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
    She smiled. “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s not nuclear is it?”
    Boricio smiled as if looking right into the center of a secret, then surprised himself by saying, “Boricio always knows what he loves.” He leaned across the table. “And the omelet I’m about to describe is enough to teach your tongue at least 10 new ways to savor.”
    “Boricio?” she laughed, almost as if she couldn’t help it. “Is that your name?”
    Boricio nodded. “Nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand.  
    “I’m Rose.” She took his hand. It felt warm and sun kissed in his. “Tell me, Boricio, do you always talk about yourself in the third person?” she asked with a laugh.
    Boricio returned the laugh. “Actually, I’ve never done that before in my life. I’m not even sure where it came from, but it came out before my mouth could stop moving.” He should have been nervous, but something about Rose made Boricio bold. He said, “Have I ruined my chances?”  
    “Well, I guess that depends on what you’re hoping to get!” She laughed, bringing a fresh sip of coffee to her lips. “And I suppose how great your omelet sounds. You do realize that ‘10 new ways to savor’ might be overselling it a bit?”  
    Boricio shook his head. “Well, that sounds like the testimony of someone