The waitress

The repetition of her walk was light with ease, her figure clothed in uniform black. Plateau after plateau upon the table, “spring rolls, tempura prawns and salmon nigiri”, she said with a forced smile on her face, the oily condiments glistening on the table. How the popularity of this restaurant had remained stable throughout the years, she could not comprehend. Sometimes she wished for a client to cry out, throw their plates of food upon the ground, to throw a tantrum of discontent, but all that passed their lips, was silent smiles. Cheap food in monstrous amounts seemed to nourish the clients’ satisfaction; indeed the more food people ate, the more it seemed to make their taste buds fall asleep.

Yes it would have made pleasure glisten through her skin, had a client revolutionised against the food she was serving. She would have taken the abuse against the food, thrown at her; she would have taken it with suspicious effortlessness, would have painted an excusing smile on her face and thrown the glossy dishes with an impetus of gratification into the bin.

It was on a night in which a strand of hair that had escaped her bun had made her boss scowl at her. It was on an evening in which the rain did not refrain from enveloping the city, in which the clouds had cut out the sun and the existence of sky blue from their lives. The family had entered quietly, so un-pretentiously, that she only noticed them once they had sat down.

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