I couldn't help staring at our waiter, every time he came to our table to ask if everything was ok, if we needed more water, more bread, to choose from the dessert menu.
I was sure it was him, the same piercing blue eyes, the same wavy dark hair, and even the same small scar under one eye.
But it couldn't have been, my first love had been killed in an accident so many years ago, and so many thousands of miles away.
Yet this waiter looked just like him and spoke in the same lilting manner. I barely ate anything, just kept staring.
And my husband realised something was wrong, but I didn't tell him.
He didn't need to know that my heart was hammering with the memory of someone else, a feeling so strong that I was having to hold back from just leaping to my feet, taking the waiter in my arms,
and kissing away all the pain of that previous tragedy.
My husband didn't eat much either, just kept looking quizzically at the waiter, the evening was ruined. It was a sombre drive home that evening.
Both of us went to bed in silence, no goodnight kiss, the atmosphere was poison.
In the morning I tried to apologise, "it was just the shock, he looked so much like him with his dark hair", I tried to explain.
My husband looked pale. "But there was no waiter, there was only a blonde waitress", he replied, "and she was the image of my first love, who died in an accident many years ago".