The Buffet

The drive felt longer than an hour, the kind of journey where anticipation stretches the road. Cravings for a long-lost soup and salad buffet, dormant for years, had roared back to life with the news of "Green Pastures," a new chain that promised to resurrect a beloved, defunct dining experience. The aesthetics, the ceramic soup bowls, even the faintly sweet aroma of blueberry muffins—it was all there. You'd planned this, arriving at 3 PM to avoid the rush. You grabbed a plastic tray and got in line at the salad bar. That’s when you saw her. She was vibrant, a sharp contrast to the muted earth tones of the restaurant. In her black sports bra and yoga pants, she looked like she’d just come from an intense workout, but she wasn't winded; she was glowing. As she reached for a scoop of roasted beets, you noticed the disciplined, athletic lines of her physique. She felt you looking, turned her head, and caught sight of your tray. She arched a single eyebrow, her lips twitching into a half-smile. You looked down at your tray, already piled high with an ambitious mountain of mixed greens, three types of dressing, and a precarious stack of muffins. Sensing her eyes, you let out a sheepish laugh. "I know, it’s a lot. But when you drive over an hour for this, you don't exactly hold back on the proportions." Her expression softened into a genuine, warm smile. "No judgment here," she said, her voice melodic. "Honestly? I respect the architecture. Most people wouldn’t really go for it on the first round. You’re playing to win."