This is a short story that i wrote a while ago and periodically go back and edit it a little bit. i feel like the end really needs work, maybe just needs more, but i can never figure out what to do with it. ive been wanting some general crit on it for a while too. thoughts?
As Chris raised the lighter to his cigarette, his face lit up with the orange glow from the burning butane. Letting out a short breath of smoke, he looked up to the woman who had just appeared at his table.
“Good evenin’, how’re we doin’ tonight?” She said with a smile that he knew was fake. Chris paused for a few moments before answering, staring blankly, in disgust almost, straight into the waitresses eyes. He hated that question, ‘How are you’. No matter how people actually felt, they always naturally responded with a light-hearted, happy ‘Good’. Why is it that when a person is feeling something worse than good, they often don’t say so? They lie to you, because its easier for people to handle the lie. People would rather not hear the truth, if its anything worse than good.
“I’m good, thanks.” He responded when the waitress began growing uneasy under his cold stare.
“What can I get you tonight?” She asked, no longer smiling.
“I’ll just have the pasta. And some iced tea.”
“Alright, it’ll be out in a bit.” She said mechanically as she scribbled something down.
“Thanks.” He said quickly, as if it had been forced.
She wheeled around and walked away, opening the door going inside from the patio in the back of the restaurant. For the few moments that the door remained ajar, the warm sound of music flooded out onto the deck. As he had nothing else to do, Chris decided to go in and listen. He shoved his cigarette into the ash tray, putting it out, and left it sitting there as he got up to walk inside.
The dim red lights inside the restaurant reminded Chris of his dark room at home, which he hadn’t entered for some months now. He suddenly remembered the pictures that he had hung up to dry after developing them the last time he used it. The pictures were of all the things that you can’t capture with a camera. The moon and the stars in a beautiful night sky, the wind as it brushes over your face and your fingers, and an array of strange, mystical, unidentifiable sounds.
The place was crowded, the bar full of rowdy people both sitting and standing, for a lack of seats, all smiling and laughing. Moving out of the barroom, he entered the room where the band was playing. This room also being crowded, he was forced to stand in a corner, watching glumly a family sitting together on a couch near him. He was completely alone.
The band, as well as the audience, was full of energy. All kinds of energy. He couldn’t tap into it though. It was as if the energy was rattling all around him, and when he reached out to feel it, to embrace it, it shrunk away. He was completely alone.
His mind wandered away from the band, however, and he began watching the people all around him. Judging. Wondering. Envying.
The family that sat on the couch near him was well-dressed and clean-cut. Numerous children were sprawled out on and around the couch that the two parents were sitting on. They were complete. They had everything, but in a sense also had nothing at the same time.
His eyes shifted slightly, landing on a waitress on the other side of the room. She was leaning on her tray, listening to the music. He looked into her eyes, saw into her, felt what she was feeling. This tired woman was taking this brief moment to forget, as much as she could, the tables, the food, the people, her boss, her family, her existence, until she was soon forced back into the hectic, sad life of lower employment by a yell from her manager. As she drifted away, off to a table of men, Chris saw what had seemed to be a glimpse of a smile on her face disappearing.
Just past where the waitress had been standing were two chairs, which were occupied by an old, gray couple. They both seemed to be sort of distant, as if they had floated off into a waking sleep. Both had on their face a look of total silence, as though all the talking, laughing, and music were nonexistent to them. The silence in their eyes looked so sincere, that Chris wondered if maybe they were both deaf.
But what interested Chris most was the man sitting on the floor in front of the old couple. He wore faded, raggy clothes, and had on his face a short white beard. Sitting there completely alone, this man bobbed his head all over the place to the music. He grew along with the sounds of the band, becoming more and more energetic as the song progressed. His foot began tapping, and he eventually lifted his hands up into the air and began drumming his fingers around as if playing the piano. He even began to yell out in joy as the mandolin player began playing a string of smooth, swift notes that sounded so beautiful.
Chris couldn’t take his eyes off this man, and as he continued watching him, he slowly came to a realization. This man, this old, strung-out, lonely man, was the happiest man in the world.
Chris suddenly awakened to the great buzz of life that surrounded him. He turned his head, looking with amazement at all the faces that smiled, laughed, spoke. The noises of everything around him began flowing into him all at once. Everything became distant, as if he were looking down at the room through a short tunnel. He was even able to see himself. This desperately depressed man standing alone in the corner. But this man that he saw was also living, he was part of the great energy of life. But how could it be him? He was looking at him, there, standing right in front of him. This man wore his clothes, his face, but it couldn’t be him.
If this man was him, he was like a spectator in his own life. He would watched himself living, through the good and through the bad, but would never truly experience any of it, never be able to have any influence over what happened and what didn’t. He was an outsider to life, watching it through a tunnel that continued to grow longer and longer as he realized these things about himself and his life. He tried desperately but wasn’t able to get back, to step into his body and attempt to experience life. The moment that he discovered the happiest man in the world, Chris (need a last name) lost everything.
Chris doesn't need a last name! Names aren't all too important in short stories, and a first name is fine for this character. The problem I'm having with the story is the fact that Chris is (just as you said) just an onlooker. He's depressed (and depressing, frankly) but we don't get a reason why. He's hyper aware of every person around him, but not enough about himself. 
But it's a really good start. I'd also suggest tweaking your description a bit more towards Chris-- describe the place as it relates to him, describe the sounds as they relate to him, describe the people as they relate to him. Make him more of a focal point for the readers to grab on to.