cosmolinguist | Perkins

I wondered if the waitress liked me.

I don't remember ever doing such a thing before.

Or maybe she was just friendly. Maybe I just liked her. I bet I liked her because I first thought she liked me; this is how I usually work.

She wore dark lipstick but no other makeup that I noticed. Her hair was rather short even though mine wouldn't be that long if I let it grow for the next year. She had glasses with those black plastic frames that I like so much. All kinds of girls are wearing those now; I wish I was among them.

When Dad said he wanted coffee she asked "Regular or unleaded?" and I liked that too.

She seemed to approve of my choice of meal—broccoli cheese soup and a salad—and I probably smiled at that. I was happy to be wearing my favorite new shirt and disappointed to remember the huge zit on my lip that's now devolved into a bright red sore because I'd been picking nervously at it all day.

I had one elbow on the table and my chin resting on my hand. If the zit had been on the other side of my face it would've been concealed by my fingers, but no. Either I hid my smile completely or I displayed the blemish. So I didn't move.

Later she came by with our bill, already holding dirty dishes from someone else's table. A fork dive-bombed to the floor as she tried to shift the pile of dishes so she could grab our slip of paper from her apron pocket, and she murmured something including the word "slippery." I liked that, too.

But I knew it was already over for us; she'd brought me a refill of cherry Coke without me even asking, but she was already looking away by the time she put it down on the table. Ah, well. Easy come, easy go.