The Potato Server

When You Mistake Lunch for Destiny

Let me tell you about the greatest love story that never happened. It had everything: longing, mystery, one-sided eye contact, and a whole lot of carbs.

There was a time in college when I truly believed I was falling in love. The kind of falling that made me walk slower, dress better, and add ten completely unnecessary minutes to my lunch route. I felt different—like I was in the opening credits of something.

It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t a passing crush. It felt like a shift in my personal timeline. Something was unfolding. I could feel it in my bones. A plot twist was coming. I was about to meet someone. The energy said so. The vibes were deafening. I felt like the main character—vaguely haunted, romantic, and on the brink of something meaningful.

All signs pointed to yes, except for the actual man in question.

Because I didn’t know his name.

He didn’t know mine.

Or that I existed.

I only saw him at lunch, in a cafeteria that wasn’t even near my building. But the first time I noticed him, something clicked into place. It felt surreal. Like stepping into a dream. Or a charming, PG-rated hallucination.

He wasn’t doing anything dramatic—just standing behind the food counter. But my brain short-circuited. There was something about his face, his gentle presence, his very specific awkwardness. He looked like the kind of guy who’d bump into you and whisper an apology, then glance away after half a second. And for reasons I still can’t fully explain, I found that completely irresistible.

He didn’t serve me that day. He was in the back, chatting with coworkers, moving trays or something. But I was hooked. Curious. Spiraling.

So I went back the next day. And the next. Soon, I was quietly rearranging my entire life around the possibility of seeing this man.

Eventually, it happened. He stepped up to the front. I was next in line. He looked up—potato scoop in hand—and smiled.

I gave him absolutely nothing.

Nothing.

Because when I’m emotionally invested, I perform indifference like it pays. I took my plate like it was a tax return and walked away like nothing in me had shifted. But the smile lingered. I clung to it like a tiny piece of undeniable proof. He smiled. At me.

After that, I went full cryptic. Changed my routes. Timed my lunches. Stayed long enough to maybe catch a glimpse but never long enough to seem obvious. I didn’t speak. I didn’t flirt. I just hovered near the realm of proximity, waiting for the gods of romance to… do something.

Weeks passed. I started building entire futures in my head. Our wedding would be small, tasteful, cafeteria-themed. Mashed vows. Curly fries for the kids. We’d live in a modest home filled with love, raising our mixed little spuds.

And then, one day, I overheard someone say, “Oh yeah, he has a girlfriend.”

No hesitation. No follow-up. No confirmation. 

Just that. A sentence. A death knell.

I stood there, blinking at the steamed carrots on my tray, suddenly aware of just how deranged this entire internal love saga had been. Of course he had a girlfriend. He was kind, shy, and employed. Why wouldn’t he?

And just like that, the fog cleared.

Because here’s the thing: he didn’t know me. I didn’t know him. I was spiraling over a guy who smiled while doing his job.

That was his role in my life. He scooped starch onto my plate and maybe smiled because it was part of the training manual. (Turns out he was the supervisor. He might have written the manual himself.)

He wasn’t a soulmate. He was a food service employee.

The delusion split clean down the middle.

Had I really crafted entire romantic arcs over a guy whose interaction with me involved a ladle? Had I adjusted my schedule and outfits on the off chance that he might offer a second look?

Yes.

Yes, I had.

And I’m not even embarrassed. Because we all need a practice heartbreak. That very specific sadness where you’re not mourning a person, but a projection. He was never mine. But in my head, he was perfect. The safe crush. The “what if” guy. The warm-up to real love.

Sometimes I wonder if he remembers me. (He doesn’t.)

If he’s married now. (Probably.)

If he still serves lunch with that shy smile. (Unlikely.)

Since then, I’ve loved deeply, lost terribly, and faced heartbreaks far less hypothetical. But I still think of him with a strange affection. Because it was never about him. It was about what he represented. The hope he sparked. The way he made an ordinary lunch feel like the start of something bigger.

The first heartbreak always finds us in some ridiculous, unforgettable way.

I’ll never forget him.

And to this day, every time I peel a potato, I smile. Not for what was, but for what could’ve been.

Many of us have a Potato Server.

A puppy love, a projected fantasy, a safe space for love to bloom with no risk of rejection—because it never had the chance to begin.

If you’re out there, my Potato Server… thanks for the starch. And the memories. If you are still single, you know where to find me.