Sometimes, I wish I were the guy who didn’t have to wake up by himself, but the thing is, I’ve got this belief system…
I shake away impending thoughts of love and marriage, things that have become murky concepts over the last year, and settle into a booth along the front windows. The duct-taped vinyl squeaks as my not inconsiderable bulk slides across it. The menu I take from where it’s propped against the window sticks to my fingers. I’m not easily grossed out, but I file the plastic trifold back into its spot and try another one. I plant my fist against my cheek, stare at the list of choices, and assess my food mood.
Footsteps halting at the table bring a swirl of sweet perfume that wraps around me. “You have a lot of nerve.”
The fired-off words?Notsweet.
Icy blue eyes stare me down like I’m one of the cockroaches I’m certain must be squatters in the deep recesses of this place, critters that emerge once the lights go out.
I feel myself blink and search the waitress’s face for a trace of tease. “I’m sorry…what?”
She sticks balled fists to the curves of her hips. “In case you aren’t aware, dine-and-dashers don’t typically return to the scene of the crime, much less expect to be served when they get there.”
Dine-and—
I lay the menu down.“What are you talking about?”
“You were here on Tuesday and you didn’t pay.” Accusation draws her cheeks tight.
I sit back. “I most certainly did not dine and dash. I left a twenty.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
Her ponytail sweeps one shoulder as she stares at me from a tilted head. “All the other guys left money on top of their tickets. You did not.”
I distinctly recall otherwise. I got a call, took out a twenty…
My eyes squeeze shut, my hand fists on my thigh. “Mike.”
Her head tilts. “Mike?”
“Yeah, he was ticked that I called him out when—”
Her forehead puckers—and even that looks good on this woman. “When what?”
“Never mind.” I self-censor. No need to further kill conversation by bringing up my coworker’s crudeness.
Resigned, shaking my head, I shift onto one hip and dig my wallet from my pocket. This time, I pluck out two twenties. One for the bill and one for her trouble.
The waitress eyes the green notes like they’re a pair of those crunchy black bugs I was just envisioning. With a sigh more exasperated than what I feel I deserve, she stuffs them into her apron. “You’re lucky I don’t report you.”
Probably so. Defending myself, however, would require rehashing Mike’s nastiness, and doing so with the lady I tried to spare in the first place violates my sense of decency.
Even as her arctic eyes frost my soul, I’m fixated on how their beauty lights up the evening.
My mouth has a mind of its own. “You’relucky you got paid forty bucks for a ten dollar meal.”
“The meal was fifteen dollars.”
Right, I added a bowl of soup. “Fifteen. My mistake.”
Her chin juts enough to let me know she’s toying with a zinger, and I wait with bated breath. Sparring with a beautiful woman easily marks the highpoint of this day.
The sharp slant of her shoulders slowly releases, signaling I’m probably going to be allowed to order, but her acquiescence also robs me of the pleasure of verbal repartee.
I drum my fingers on the plastic menu. “Do I get to eat or not?”
