Inner Dialogue, or The Waitress

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‘Have I seen you here before?’

My eyes shifted from the screen full of words that had long ago descended into nonsensical mess rather than coherent sentences, burned into my retinas through procrastinating daydreams. I only tore away from the captivatingly boring jumble of black on white, the refocusing letters blending back into a blur of symbols before the voice spoke again.

‘I have, haven’t I?’

This time I managed to crane my entire neck and subsequent face from the screen prison to sit up straight in my chair, positive I’d have noticed any response had the question been aimed at anyone other than yours truly.

‘You’re in here quite a lot.’

The last statement, deliberately not phrased as a question, a last-ditch effort to begin conversation, was closer than those previous, directly over my shoulder where a shadow loomed above light footsteps tapping on the linoleum tiles. A pair of flat brown shoes carried sock clad feet and stocking covered legs into my downward peripheral vision.

A girl. The owner of the voice that so recently interrupted my dazed attempt to work. I should have immediately realised her questions were directed at me as she passed by my table, should have assumed the high-pitched cheery tones could only be that of a Female Human struggling to convey interest in someone she apparently recognised as, if not more, a recurring customer.

Our eyes finally contributed to the exchange by meeting to cement the conversation as our own. A green and blue mixture briefly obscured by a loose strand of brown fringe before being subconsciously swept aside and tucked behind the ear. The gesture woke something in me I consciously had to quell a split second later in order to gather enough sense to produce a legible response.

‘I enjoy the atmosphere.’

‘Really?’ she asked, awaiting further explanation as if I’d given some rare excuse in place of the truth.

‘This may sound strange, but I enjoy watching people. People I’ll never know, never speak to or interact with in any way other than a passing presence in the corner of their eye. I like to watch as they travel along their own paths through life, never again to intersect with my own.’ I deliberately trailed off, allowing a moment for the inspired idea to sink into her already impressed thoughts. ‘Does that make me strange?’

A laugh. Good lord, the squeaky giggle even forced a grin to my own reserved lips. I would never tire of those laughs, a fact their producers need not know.

‘No, not at all. Does it make me strange to actually go out of my way to be more than a presence in the corner of your eye?’

A witty response, though a little wordy and a touch selfish, steering the conversation back towards herself after my equally interesting and intriguing ice breaker. Disheartened, I forgave her within the instant, if only to continue distracting myself from more important tasks.

‘Not at all. Though having recognised me by the back of my head may be of more noteworthy concern.’

I smiled, waiting for her to cease her laughter and deliver a retort. A playful exchange was all well and good, but I wasn’t the only one here required to explain myself. I had no earthly idea who this woman was, thus it should only be fair she announce our apparent connection.

‘Oh, I see you in here all the time. I mean, I have a few times. Always with your laptop, tapping away or staring at it. Always so deep in concentration.’ I managed not to fold myself in three at her features bunching together to mock the expression she’d apparently witnessed, instead forced to settle with a minuscule flutter of the eyelids. ‘Working, I’m guessing.’ Her constant grin overshadowed the ramble she’d fallen into with my insistent silence. ‘Are you a writer?’

I gave a slight nod, eyebrow raise, a fine roll of the eyes, a move perfected years prior in preparation for these exact moments. ‘Something like that.’ Modest. Of course I am, but there’s no need to make a big thing of it.

‘Cool,’ the elongated single syllable hinting at genuine interest.

‘I assume you work here?’ I asked, pointing at the apron harbouring the establishment’s logo that had about as much in common with a cafe as my own clothing.

‘Oh, yes,’ she gasped before relieved laughter, looking down at the apron. ‘I do, yes. That’s why I recognise you. Otherwise that’d be super creepy. I’m not a stalker or anything.’

‘Of course not.’ I clasped my hands together, fingers easing into and around each other as I leaned forward on the table top, wrists resting on the warm keyboard, the space between us an inch smaller. ‘You don’t seem like the type.’

She responded to the move, possibly subconsciously, by folding her arms to rest on the back of the chair across my table. Her employee attire left most to the imagination. ‘So what type do I seem like?’

‘The type to give her contact information to a… loyal customer.’ Not a question, no reluctance. She didn’t stand a chance.

Her brow leapt in surprise, accentuating the small giggle that came after, another soul lifting chirp, but she gave no more words. Her eyes dropped, travelling to the table, the floor, the counter behind me, eventually returning to mine where they belonged.

Still without speaking, she slid a pen from behind her ear and, with a charming if a little unnerving determination, dragged my notepad across from my workstation towards herself. I grinned as she intently scrawled digits into the paper before pushing the freshly inked page back. With a subtle tongue flick over her top lip, a slyly controlled smile, a luscious glint in her eyes trying to match my own level of all-business, she said, ‘I finish in an hour.’

I watched her return to the counter, both of us knowing where my eyes followed as she returned to her standard duties of taking orders from other patrons of less import, me returning to my blank staring at the endlessly taunting flashing cursor.

Had I not been consumed by all the typing of endlessly alluring words strung into phrases into paragraphs into chapters I was daydreaming about realising, I may have had some semblance of how long had passed when she came to my table, a small yet friendly smile adorning her features.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Normally I’d strike up conversation with my customers before they’ve been here this long,’ she said, her grin and tone inevitably not as personable as I’d anticipated. ‘How’s everything been for you?’

A sheepish child, I looked up from the blinking cursor that had barely slogged an inch across the screen, twitching into a grin, eyes darting past her to the unmanned counter, the empty tables, my trembling fingers hovering over those dastardly keys, anywhere but the cardiac-threatening territory of those probing blue-green pools.

I managed a mumbled, ‘Fine,’ and a throat clearing before repeating, ‘Fine,’ expecting the second to be stronger, instead as much exact repetition and weakness in the tone as the answer.

‘Good to hear,’ she said. ‘Can I get you anything else?’

I shook my head. Of course not. In a parallel cosmos she could—a coffee, a sandwich, even a light, sweet snack should my counterpart feel so devilishly inclined—but refusal was the road of least resistance, one that prompted little continued interaction. In the extensive microseconds between my grand response, I grew suddenly conscious of an itch in the untrimmed prickles along my cheeks—oh how I now dreamed I’d shaved that morning—and perspiring beads forming under my arms, surely having already soaked into the material of my unwisely chosen shirt. If she hadn’t already spotted the stains, the light but unmistakable odour would soon assault her nostrils.

‘I, uh… I’m okay. Thanks.’ How many unneeded extra syllables I managed through stutters between so few words I respectfully refuse to acknowledge.

‘All good. Just the bill, then?’

I nodded, able to hold her eyes longer than a few lengths of my erratically thumping chest for the first time, a miniature milestone of my own misguided manifestation. Rather than instilling any even distant tinge of eroticism I appeared to only achieve frightening the once viable mate.

Waiting in vain for deserved elaboration, or perhaps any remotely logical explanation for the ungodly display of human misbehaviour she’d unknowingly pulled up a front row seat for, she left to collect the supposed owed amount. My posture eroding as effectively as the wave of brilliant heat pulsing through my cheeks strengthened, I cowered behind my suddenly too small laptop screen in anticipation of her return.

I resurfaced from the uninspired barrier when she cautiously presented me the money-taking machine and, with the tap of a trembling plastic card, I handed over what small amount of hard-earned government payments I hadn’t already wasted.

While the confirmation beep prompted her to chirp, ‘Have a nice day,’ it jolted me from the deep crevice of embarrassment I had thrown myself to propel me to either come to my senses or lose them altogether. My response, impossibly unforeseen by either party, was spurred by an unbridled amount of pure, terrific, crippling fear, shame, and self-immolation that materialised  as false confidence. In retrospect, a briefly donned and wildly misplaced ‘fuck-it’ attitude.

‘What are you doing later?’ I coughed, practically heaved through lips drier than sunbaked sand, tongue as heavy as if stung swollen.

Having already begun turning back to other patrons, her duties regularly misinterpreted as personal affection, she stopped and faced me once more, her features bunching together to attempt genuine sorrow.

‘Oh, I’m really sorry, but I… have a boyfriend.’

Furiously nodding by her fourth word, moving with great haste by the eighth, I slapped the laptop closed and collected my useless pens and virginal notepad foolishly presented as if to convey an air of professionalism, squishing them all into my bag along with any shred of dignity I may have, though unlikely, once possessed.

The chair’s feet gratingly scraped the tiles as I stood, refusing any further eye contact with a single stranger including the woman before me, too stunned in her confusion and concern to blanket the visible regret to offer anything more than another quiet apology.

I wasted no further time retreating from the shrinking cafe, the crushing weight of the bag strap over my shoulder threatening to crumple me into a little pile of man as I pushed past the few other customers between me and my great escape. Between lung-draining breaths I suddenly remembered to nonchalantly rest the heel of my palm on one or two of the chairs as I passed, a casual manoeuvre reserved for the cool, collected individual like myself, should any onlookers have noticed my recent animalistic theatrics.

At the door I deigned to turn one final time before I was prepared to fully commit to forcefully cast the entire encounter into distant, buried memory. The woman’s eyes briefly locked with mine before rushing to avoid my lingering gaze as she turned to the next patron, likely learning some lesson I wasn’t yet prepared to ponder in my desperation to flee the brutal scene.

Later, behind the safety of my eyelids and with the utmost grace and courteous affection, I spent the night bedding her.

Benjamin Ranger on Unsplash

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