I was working at a restaurant as a cook, and would occasionally run food out to the bar if the waitresses were busy. One busy Friday night, just as I returned to the kitchen after running some food out, the bartender came back with a rose, saying that a guy at the bar had seen me and asked her to tell me that he thought I was beautiful. This was a first, of course, and I was eager to have him pointed out. So we peeked around the corner, and the bartender pointed to a guy at the end of the bar in a plaid shirt. I didn't think he was too bad, so I told her to give him the message that I was going to be on break soon, and he could meet me on the back deck in a few minutes, where I could thank him for his nice gesture. After the initial introductions and thanks, we were at a loss for conversation. So he fell back on the old "you look nice" line. Since I had on a dirty, food-stained shirt, I knew he was just being polite, but I thanked him and returned the compliment. He was actually dressed decently in a green-and-tan plaid shirt and some khaki pants. But then he began to tell me about his whole wardrobe, and how he wore nothing but plaid. In fact, every shirt in his closet was some form of plaid. I was a little weirded out by the statement, but figured it could be overlooked. Then he moved his arm to look at his watch, and I noticed an extremely large scar on his wrist. I wasn't going to ask, but he must have seen the quizzical look on my face and decided to offer up the story behind it. Apparently he had tried to commit suicide after his girlfriend broke up with him, and he had been single for some time. After that disclosure, I pretended to hear someone calling my name, and told him that my break was over. Then I hurried back inside. I found out later that he had tried to date one of the waitresses, but she had never let it get past the "just friends" stage. She had, however, been to his house and had actually seen his closet. She confirmed that there was not a solid color to be found--only plaid.
— Molly, 26