| She is one of three waitresses in the Mexican restaurant. It is not a particularly busy lunchhour but she seems harried-uncomfortable. She pulls her coaldust hair into a ponytail, scrunches it with one hand and then five minutes later pulls it out, put the scunchie on her wrist and clips her bangs back with a couple of pink clippies. For a moment, she holds the clips in the corner of her mouth, smearing lip gloss. Later, she pulls at the back of her slacks, tugging at the waistband with her thumb and forefinger, as if they were falling down. They're not. She winces, bites her fingernails and absentmindedly taps straws against her serving tray. Odd, considering the music lacks any rhythym other than an accordian. I wonder if she is expecting someone who has not arrived, or if someone she did not want to come in, did. I think she is beautiful and flawed and nervous and fragile.
You getting all this?
My buddy, watching me watch her. "Yes," I say "all of it, is that OK?"
Sure, just don't be surprised if she spills the ice water on ya.
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