The Waitress

The waitress is beautiful and she hates me. It’s okay. I don’t blame her. I would hate me too. My wife thinks this is all too hilarious. She said it’s what I deserve for staring. The waitress isn’t even waiting on our table. Instead we’ve got some frat boy with a corny goatee. The stunning waitress is waiting on a nearby table but walks by frequently. Her uniform is comprised of a great deal of cloth, keeping her very concealed. It is, however, like an excited child who cannot keep a secret. It pulls tight, relaxes, and lays close across her figure, describing what lies beneath. It’s magnificent. She’s magnificent. She’s caught me looking twice and that’s sufficient to classify me as an asshole. Fair enough. I probably am. Doubtless she’s used to it. My chicken Marsala is here.