Chapter 43

43

We…and by “we” I mean John and I, go out for breakfast. I slept amazingly well on his fold out couch, the temperature outside so warm that I didn’t bother with a blanket. After two nights of sleeping in the most uncomfortable of places, I was asleep before my head crashed into the pillow.

The waitress waltzes over to our table, and I say waltzes because her every gesture recreates a dance move on the tiled floor. She is beautiful. Her curly brown hair forms a frame around the Picasso of her face.

She is perfectly slender with young, vibrant breasts that bounce with her gait. Her shirt exposes most of her arms; a milky smooth set that passes in front of me like an ivory messenger of today’s featured items.

I look at John as if needing his confirmation on the menu wielding beauty before us. He doesn’t seem to notice her, and is instead focused on the European tour of waffles. Quickly he orders a cup of coffee, and buries his nose right back into the menu. I am not so eager to send her away.

Searching her chest for a nametag, I discover that our fair skinned waitress likes to be referred to as Julie.

“Good morning, Julie.”
“Good morning, sir. Coffee?”

Her voice is like honey. I am almost tempted to get a cup of tea instead so I could order a sentence from her and add it to my Irish Breakfast, only that I hate tea. It’s too pretentious.

“Sure, I’ll have a cup…” I pause.
“Anything else?”

I ponder the question. I find myself standing at a fork in this proverbial moral crossroad. Several thoughts compile themselves into a list.

1) The confident road: “Yes, Julie, my friend and I would really enjoy your company this evening for a pre-planned excursion. This is John and I’m Richard. What time do you get off this evening?”
2) The dirty, over eager road: “Yes Julie. I’ve been in a coma for twenty years and am dying to lick bourbon off your beautiful body.”
3) The pleasant, dismissive road: “No, the coffee’d be fine.”

On any other given day all roads would have the exact same percentage of leaving my mouth at any given time, but I can’t seem to get a verbal response out into the air. I shake my head and smile instead, watching her body salsa away from the table in search of Columbian coffee.