“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made a sound. You seem off today, kid.”
“Nope. I’m great.” I take a careful sip of surprisingly fresh coffee as I sweep the dining room with my gaze. Hopefully, he’ll take the hint.
The diner is only half full so far, but our waitress is one of just two ladies on duty, and the growing lunch crowd keeps her hopping. With grace, her long legs weave her in and out of the tables. Taking orders, meeting needs. She’s good at her job, even if she doesn’t care for it.
At last, she lines up our table in her sights, a loaded tray perched above her shoulder. I’ve never understood how otherwise dainty women manage without spilling the load. Inthis case, I have to tamp down the urge to swoop in and lower the heavy thing to the stand for her.
Strength wouldn’t be an issue, but I’m kind of a klutz.
As with most guys once assigned the position of lineman on their high school football teams, I’m known for my brawn, not my grace. The skill required to block a defender tends to go underappreciated. Not a lot of flash in it for the masses.
Story of my life.
While the waitress distributes our meals, I check out her shirt—for her nametag. Unlike the other waitstaff, she doesn’t wear one.
She hands out our tickets along with the food. Nice. We won’t have to wait around once we’re finished eating.
Near my elbow, she folds up the stand, hanging it over her arm. “Everything look good?”
The cringe in my soul is reflexive. Mike is as predictable as he is annoying.
“Looks good and hot, sweetheart.”
Were his eyes on her face or the chicken fried steak she set in his place, my fist wouldn’t be balling in my lap.
And talk about fake, that smile of hers before she wheels around to a neighboring table.
Mike executes a not-exactly-blatant but not-quite-subtle, guy-turn of the head. “Man, I’d like to—”
“Dude.”I don’t intend the word in the friendly context. The poor woman deserves respect.
She heads for the kitchen, but the rigid set of her shoulders leaves no room for wondering whether she heard.
Mike’s lip curls, and there’s an edge to his expression. “What’s your problem, Saint Knox?”
Even though the waitress is out of earshot, I lower my voice. “She was three feet away, man. She could hear every word you said.”
“Maybe I wanted her to hear. Ever heard of flirting?”
I choke on my own spit. “That’s not what flirting is.”
Picking up his knife in one hand, fork with the other, he snorts. “How would you know?”
Just because I suck at the activity doesn’t mean I don’t know it when I see it—and when I don’t. I unwind the flatware from the paper napkin, eyeing him. Truth is, I’d be within rights to cut the guy loose here and now. His work shirt bears the LHS logo. So help me, the next little screwup…
I shake my head and reach for the bottle of ketchup next to the jellies and mini butter tubs. I’m already tired, and my appetite for food far outweighs my appetite for conversation, much less conflict. I squeeze a puddle of the tomatoey stuff onto the plate.
While the others talk about inane things I have zero interest in, I check the stocks app and thumb through the day’s news.
Only some crumbs and a handful of fries remain when a notification banner interrupts the scroll. I decline the call, but I wipe the grease from my fingers and take a twenty from my wallet. I wedge it under my coffee cup and tell the guys I’ll meet them at the truck.
On my way to the door, I return the call.
Everly
Men are such…ugh.
