I sat there hammerin’ on that enormous burger, tearin’ at that pink-brown slab o’ meat with the marbled, smoky bacon overhang; the runny orange/gold yolk o’ that fried egg dripping languidly through my fingers—no napkin in sight, so I lick it off; spaghetti-slurping that raw purple onion through a voracious pucker; crinkle-topped bun toasted to a burnt-edged perfection. I drag those crispy sweet potato fries through the tiny silver ramekins of homemade ranch and spicy mustard aioli before tossin’ ‘em on the mouth mound. A bluesy John Mayer tune pipes over the lively chatter of the few other patrons out past dark on a cold Sunday night, a hot mug of Lipton’s chasing away a chill and warming all the way down. I dine alone.
The curvaceous waitress with liner-drawn cat eyes steeples her fingers on my table to see how I’m enjoying my meal, as if the rolled eyes, the post-bite sighs, the moans of culinary satisfaction weren’t clear enough. Her ring finger nails are sparkly gold, all the others are dark-something; the lighting is low, so it’s hard to tell. Her blouse is tight and low-cut, her bra a bit too small—you can see where her amplenesses are cut in half and her cups runneth over. Her jeans appear to be from a spray can instead of a chest of drawers. I notice and appreciate in silence. She has fingerprint bruises on her upper arms, and I wonder if her boyfriend holds on too tightly because he’s angry, or jealous, or because he simply can’t get enough of all the incredible woman she is. I like to think it’s the third.
The other servers come by to check on me—it’s nearly closing time. I know this because the ketchup collection has begun. I request a check. Cat-eyed hourglass returns with a saunter and the bill and I flap my credit card on the table with a crooked grin. I double-dip the last sweet potato in the sauces and get ready to leave when “Thriller” comes on.
I can wait. For Michael, I will wait.
Vincent Price finishes his sinister laughter and I reach for my hat. As I rise, I feel the stiffness in my back—gym or age, uncertain—so it looks like I strut from the restaurant. Ah, who am I kidding? I strut from the restaurant. I feel the fall night air through the glass before my hand reaches the door handle and the breeze blows between my shirt buttons as I enter the evening, half a block from my home. It is GREAT to be alive.