The Waitress

A cold Winter's day and thick, puffy clouds block up the blueness of that huge sky in these wide open spaces. A restaurant at noon and I sit at a table so far from home. The wind howls outside and I sink down further into my overcoat.

On the wall, where the waitresses tap in their orders on a computer screen, a pretty girl stands. She turns three quarters away from me exposing her profile and back. I glance at her at first and then take further notice. She stands in brown work boots and blue jeans that are worn and faded but fit so perfectly. A pen sticks out of her back pocket. From beneath her top a lacy undergarment of sorts cascades over a narrow beige swath of bare waist.

She pauses and remains motionless. There was something about her stance that made her look so lovely and receptive. I took a deep breath and rubbed my back against the chair. The goddess of the Universe took notice of my love and with a tender and flowery hand flipped a switch somewhere in heaven. The sun raised a golden eyebrow above the cloud top and a shaft of sunlight beamed down and streaked through the filmy window. It enveloped the waitress in sad and soft light and glowed through the wisps of her honey colored hair.

I felt as if I were dieing.