The Last Table of the Night

There’s a strange intimacy in being the final diners left in a restaurant. The music is softer now, or maybe it just feels that way because the room is empty. Candles gutter. Glasses echo louder when they touch.

The staff start to fold the day back into itself. Napkins gathered into quiet stacks. Chairs nudged into alignment. The server who once moved with urgency now moves with ritual. The kitchen door swings less often, and when it does, the chef peers out — not to check on you, but to measure how close they are to leaving.

You don’t have to rush, but you feel like you should. Every sip of wine, every scrape of fork, becomes heavy with awareness. The restaurant has shifted its attention. You are no longer part of service; you are what stands in the way of sleep.

And yet — it’s a privilege. To watch a dining room undress itself. To see the performance end, not with applause, but with the soft clatter of cutlery being rolled into linen.

The first table of the night gets the freshest energy, the sense of possibility. But the last table gets the truth.