Trouble Lurking

I look through the greasy windows of a small, out-of-town diner, full of middle-aged lorry drivers working the night shift. They are tired, lonely, a pain to look at. But the image of the creature serving them coffee is suffice to endure the sight.
She is small, and young, with a tiny figure. Her large brown eyes carry hope and eagerness, and the corners of her mouth are upturned as her customers bluntly ask for a refill.
These minute details help me to build a vague idea of her story. I'm thinking...
New to the area. She works nights so she can use her days for auditions and rehearsals.
I sigh at the stereotype.
As the dim light flashes against the shine of her hair when her head turns, my heart leaps. The red strands are long and soft, aching to be stroked.
I bite my lip and resist the urge to push open the double doors and step onto the cheap, green linoleum tiles.
The seconds tick by like hours, until she retreats back into the kitchen. I finally let out the breath I have been holding. I turn to face the long, dark stretch of road and line of dusty lorries. As I walk to my bicycle, I make a note of the time and date. Then, I realise what seemed so different about Charlie Andrews. The engagement ring on her left hand. It wasn't there, as it had been for the previous six and a half weeks.
She is alone.
Vulnerable.
I pull up my hood, slink into the shadows
And wait for the end of her shift.