Drawn by Agent Midnight
Standard disclaimers apply
Heero POV
Four blocks down the street from my apartment building
is a lovely little restaurant that I go to at least once a week, twice
when I have exams. Now, at first glance, it doesn't appear to be anything
spectacular, so why do I keep going back? Through the dirt-smudged
windows, all you can see is pure elegance made from everything plain.
The foldout tables are always evenly spaced out and covered with this
magnificently rich silk tablecloth that must have put the small joint
in the slums for quite a while. On top of the smooth, white silk you
should always expect to see a fresh batch of real roses, garnishing
all the tables and the front desk where this young woman sits each
and every night at around six.
The menus are cheap cardboard, only one or two laminated for safety
of funds. On the fresh tables, they sit on top of the less-than-mediocre
dishes with the could-be-silvers next to it in precise order according
to meal. There's a salad fork, a soup spoon, a couple of knives, and
to be quite frank, I only confuse myself more and more as I sit and
try to figure out what to use when.
They serve a variety of courses that could possibly appeal to just
about anyone. I, myself, go and order the dinner salad and whatever
soup they may be serving at that particular time in the week. Granted,
it's not like the food itself is anything worth bragging over. It
tastes like something you would expect to get off of a shelf in the
frozen food section, but I guess it saves the trouble of putting it
in the microwave because they do that for you. But I know for a fact
that their kitchen is damn near spotless and has a very high ranking
when it comes to quality. I know this trait shouldn't be something
I'm proud of, but as long as I don't see anything nasty in the food,
I'll up and eat it.
My mother would be so proud.
The staff is just a bunch of regular "sweethearts", if
you ask me. They're cavity-causing, bright, sunny folks who have the
worst possible timing to come bug you at the exact second you don't
want to be disturbed. You may have your spoon up to your lips for
that first bite and they'll come and ask you how your meal was and
if you wanted any dessert. They all mean well, but they also are pretending
to mean well because their little restaurant doesn't get many customers.
About two weeks ago, I overheard two waiters talking that they may
soon have to look for more work because the restaurant "appeared"
to be dropping. Have I mentioned? Yeah, nobody goes to eat there.
It looks too much like a dump from the outside for it to attract any
real customers who intend to make that a hot spot for eating.
In other words, this lot of kids is only nice in hopes that the few
customers would come back and keep them in business. Every time I
pop up out of nowhere, they all want to pamper me and take me to the
"best" table in the house, even though they are all the
same. I found out that said table was actually in one of the brighter
areas of the place. This one light manages to be three times as bright
as all the other ones put together, and I must admit that it is kind
of nice to be able to read the menu without squinting.
This little place didn't catch my attention until it was really late
and I needed some food. I was more than willing to put up with a low-scale
restaurant if it meant that I would get some food into my complaining
stomach (oh, how I love study sessions!) before I could go to bed.
And the second I stepped through those doors into the soft, air-conditioned
atmosphere that I have grown to enjoy, I saw something that I knew
would keep me coming back.
On that cold, damp night in February, this beautiful waitress appeared
to be all alone in the restaurant, wrapping some extra silverware
and laying the fresh out on the tables. Oh, I can still remember how
tired she looked as she sat down on one of the loosely padded chairs
and scrunched her long fingers into the hem of her apron. Even today,
she has the same little shadows under her eyes as she had when I stepped
through, but since I haven't seen her outside of the store, I can't
tell if it's really how she looks or how the light presents her.
She hadn't noticed me standing in the doorway until the buzzer on
top of the door finally let out a low buzz, and then her head turned
and she immediately glared at the buzzer like it was some terrible
evil. Her hazy eyes cleared very, very quickly and she climbed to
her feet with a fake smile. Those curved lips parted for just a second
until the sliding door leading to the kitchen popped open and another
person made an appearance.
"May I help you, sir?"
The waitress grabbed the tray she had put on one of the tables, and
then she disappeared into the kitchen without saying one damned word.
It was too late.
I was drawn.
Each and every time I came to eat, I would see her strolling back
and forth... back and forth. Always at the opposite side of the store,
too. As hard as I continued to try, I was never assigned to her tables.
From the distance, I could watch her safely under the dull glow of
the overhead light, and she never really noticed me for more than
a second.
It became a habit.
I would sit and order a salad and some soup, positioning myself in
just a way that I could see her coming in and out of the kitchen,
sometimes propping the trays against her lithe body. Even though she
was one of the rare gems of the female race I had ever laid my eyes
upon, she wasn't particularly curvy and she definitely wasn't something
I was normally attracted to. She still has this subtle beauty to her
that makes her stand out when she's with the other female waitresses.
They all glam themselves up with makeup and jewelry, their shoes flashy
and high-heeled. Little skirts that almost cross the line of being
obscene without losing their odd little class. Their hair done up
nicely with little silvery clips and scrunchies.
But... she doesn't do that.
She walks back and forth... back and forth... in her well-worn tennis
shoes that appear to have seen many, many better days. The colors
of her socks can be seen through this massive hole in the side of
the shoe, making me smile every time I get to see what new color she
has on. Sometimes red... blue... green... purple... and sometimes
traditional white. Always makes me smile.
Her jeans are loose and hanging low on her lips, openly showing the
world that she wears boxers, not panties. I had down-right laughed
as I saw a pair of eyes from a smiley face peeking at me from her
little bottom, and she had turned around for just a second and had
really acknowledged me.
Acknowledged me by smiling.
Her hair...
It's so beautiful.
It's always done up in a pony-tail, nothing special but keeping it
out of her way as she tries to make a living for herself. Her gorgeous
hands constantly reach up to push back stray little wisps of golden-brown,
tucking them behind her ears with such sensuality it appalls me.
How could I not be drawn to such a person?
She was lovely.
I knew I had to meet her... to hear her voice...
I wanted to be her customer, dammit.
Stop thinking nasty thoughts all you perverts, even though I'm thinking
them, too.
Anyway, it seemed like I always missed my opportunity by trying to
pinpoint where her section would be, but she always switched around.
Fate didn't appear very kind to me when I kept telling that nice girl
at the front that I wanted to switch tables, and realizing later on
that the pretty waitress was waiting at the table I had been sitting
at.
It was a week after "meeting" her when I realized that
she knew I wanted to be amongst her assigned tables. She started to
flirt, if you could even come close to calling it that, with me across
the room when she was tending to her customers like they were gods
and needed the special treatment. All the while, I was frustrated,
confused, amused, and sipping on my soup. Too far away from her, if
you ask me.
Her sparkling eyes would meet mine more and more often as she turned
to walk back towards the kitchen, and those cheerful smiles nearly
caused me to choke about six times each night. I wanted nothing more
than to follow her into that kitchen and kick the chef out so we could
be alone.
I held back, though, heh.
Yeah, yeah. She was a stranger.
But a pretty one.
Eventually, the sly woman started to "accidentally" drop
things so that she could bend over near my table, giving me a very
nice view of her... um... boxer design. Oh, oh. Sometimes she would
step so close, strands of her hair would lightly brush against my
arm before she walked off like nothing happened.
She never spoke.
But I was drawn.
I tried and tried and tried...
... until I finally realized that I was in her section.
It appeared to surprise her, too, because the second her eyes locked
onto mine, this splash of red danced across her cheeks until it looked
like she was almost feverish. The only thing I could do was offer
up a tiny smile and request a glass of water.
She didn't speak.
Her graceful, shy composure seemed to crumble as she left and came
back, her hands wrapped around the water like she was afraid she was
going to drop it.
Sing-song it now! Fate!
That's right.
She stepped up next to me and her hand just seemed to uncurl, my
glass of water a little too high up for comfort. I don't think either
of us realized what the Hell was happening until the very, very, very
cold water splashed into my lap and the cup banged against the table.
Her long hands shot up to cover her gaping mouth, and for the first
time, I saw her next to me rather than across the room.
And I realized that my waitress...
"Oh, sir! I am terribly sorry! It just slipped-"
... was a waiter.
And I was drawn.
*******
The End
*******
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