She’s got tattoos on her arms; one on her leg. RC has been into tattoos lately, because he likes girls who are brave enough to do things he’s not. She’s pretty cute, I guess.
She’s a waitress. No, she’s a busboy. A busgirl… A… busser? You know, an empty-glass-picker-upper. She has great posture. She’s short, but stands tall. RC is too afraid to talk to her. I don’t know how he lives with himself.
When she’s picking up our glasses, I reach out and shake her hand. “You’re doing a great job,” I say.
“Thanks,” she says. “Do you want a glass of water?”
She thinks I’m drunk. “Yes, please.”
It’s closing time, and she hasn’t brought me water. I see her on the way out. “What happened to my water?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “I forgot.”
It’s the following week. I shake her hand again, and she remembers me.
“Sorry I forgot your water,” she says. I say it’s no problem.
Clearly she’s beginning to fall in love with me.
Me, RC, and our friends continue to sip our beverages and converse. The night wears on, much in the way you’d imagine a cocktail party of Great Gatsby-esque sophistication.
She comes around again, to pick up our empty glasses.
“Hey,” I say, before she walks away. “You have really great posture.”
“Thank you,” she says.