I've lost track of the time. All I know is that I am hungry, lonely, tired, and absent.
Not sure where to go from here. Stuck in the lower levels of the steak and lobster machine, biding the time until something gives.
I have lost track of the number of times in which I have fallen.
There's more to it than that, of course. The gradual diminishment of sense as torpor takes hold of one by one, leading the way further inward.
The previous night at work I noticed a young woman attempting to rise from table 642 using a pair of crutches. She was obviously not a regular crutch-user, having what appeared to be a temporary impairment. Her friend told her how to reach the bathroom via the long way. Walking by, I suggested to her the shortcut, a way typically used only by staff and the very drunk and careless. We passed a manager, who had just recently arrived to work. As I lead her down the corridor, I explained to her that this way was somewhat more hazardous but that it was better, being less distance. Outside the bathroom stood two of the bussers, kibitzing as always. I quickly explained to one what needed to be done, that the young lady required an escort back to her table in the lounge. The more talkative of the two bussers immediately mentioned how he himself once used crutches upon a time.
Later, as I reviewed my day/night, I realized that I did not even think to ask a woman to open the door to the restroom. Later still I would recall that a very similar scenario had played out once before, even down to the passing of the same manager in the corridor. Except in the distant past, I had deftly handed the guest off to said manager, who did not open the door to the bathroom either.
Then this evening at work I offered to serve two sides at a table. The guests requested that I refrain from doing so, stating their preference to help themselves. At which point I left the side dishes on the table, in front of their large dinner plates. The serving spoons were still facing outside, away from the guests—a couple who chose to sit side by side so as to hold each other surreptiously in lieu of gazing into each other's eyes.
There's too much reflection, sometimes. All of the things pile up and weigh me down, pulling and prodding.
Not sure where to go from here.