The residue of the outside rain tumbled off the man’s black umbrella and collected into a dirty pile of muck left by other dripping raincoats and muddy shoes. Fantastic. Mr. Sikes would no doubt walk over there and make a big show of meeting and greeting the waiting customers and graciously damn me publicly for being somehow responsible for the untidy mess, which I wasn’t. I was a waitress, not a hopper, but a newbie was a newbie in every sense of the word, and so I was still the hopper.

The man in the dark gray trench coat which screamed “no time for you” was followed by a blonde in an equally gray trench coat, although hers was tailored with a tighter fit and higher cut. She brushed the last bits of rain onto the now even more soiled patch of floor and leaned onto the man 15 years her senior with big gooey eyes. I had to give credit to her for trying to look somber and serious; the dark gray trench coat almost had me fooled. But her eyes shot off their own permanently-on-vacation vacant stare and her laugh was the annoying kind, the kind that nasally follows a stupid joke and is accompanied by a coquettish push on the arm and a flirtatious ejaculation of delight. Oh please. Half the things he said flew straight over her head, so obviously she could only resort to laughing at the offhand sexual quips.

They finally got their table and were seated far across from the pantry door. She unbuttoned her coat and showed off a dark blue plunging dress, definitely overdressed. I took heart in the fact that she looked like the junior high kid trying to impress at the senior prom – not that a junior high kid would ever be invited. But half the customers were the above-50 crowd, including her date. I had to agree that from faraway she looked like perfection, a flawless painting of the feminine form. Read: plastically cut figure of inhuman proportions. Judging from the way the other waiters directed their attention to table 30, I’d say that most would agree. Tragic really, how such beauty could be wasted on a dunce. He of course had no objections. A suggestive glance here and a painted smile there more than compensated for the lack of spark in their conversation.

“For christsake get out there and serve something!” I bolted out of the pantry door and put on my best waitress smile; want anything else mister? The blonde at table 30 glanced in my direction and waved me over with a nonchalant flick of her wrist. Don’t customers ever fear getting their food spat in? It happens all the time. I stood at my corner for a second longer; not long enough so that she would think I didn’t hear her, but long enough so that she would glance up at my direction again, only to be greeted by a cheeky grin. “Hi dad. Miss. Ready to order?” I would deal with the awkwardness later.