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The Waitress Who Loved A Gentleman
The waitress made her way over to the secluded table beside the window in the rather crowded and noisy resturant. The late afternoon was rather gloomy due to the persistent rainfall of the day. Yellowed, dim bulbs provided faint illumination to the interior of the inn.
"Right here. I'm afraid this the only table we have left."
"It will do, thank you." replied the young man who followed the waitress in tail along with a young woman - supposedly his wife - at least as the waitress assumed.
"Have you decided what you would like to have?"
"Coffee with some warm rolls and tea for the young lady."
"Alright. It'll be delivered to your table in a minute."
As the waitress is about to leave, the young woman expresses shock at having mistakenly sat on a bag.
"What is the matter?" The waitress asks, stopped short on her way by the woman's concern.
"I think I must have sat on this bag."
"Is it not yours?" The waitress addresses the man with the woman, to which he responds irritatedly:
"Why would I put my suitbag where my woman would sit? What kind of a question is this?"
"I'm terribly sorry." The waitress quickly arrests the situation by removing the bag away from the seat and taking it with her to the order counter. Her boss, Flint, at the counter seemed precoccupied with counting bills with his fingers and wetting them with his saliva intermittently.
"Sir, I found this suitbag at one if the tables."
"Don't it belong to any of the customers?" came the hoarse reply from Flint, barely looking up from the thick sums in his hands.
"I'm afraid not although it looks vaguely familiar."
"Give it here, let me look at it."
Flint discreetly puts way the cash, taking the bag and perusing it for a moment. His eyes suddenly lit up.
"Of course! It's for the quiet gentleman that sits right there by the window!"
"Oh, you mean Mr. John?"
"Who else would I mean, you dimwit?" Flint responds harshly, turning the tobacco held between his teeth. "Maybe, I'd be lucky to find some good cash within the bag."
"Sir...I don't think that's a good idea. It would be considered...stealing."
"You can as well be boarding the next train to England if you so much as open your mouth again." Flint threatened the cowering waitress.
"America is not as refined as your proper England. Right here, you have to get your hands dirty to make gains and it's no muffin. It's hard enough to make a dollar a day."
"Of course, and I'm sorry."
"Good. Now help me unload the suitbag."
Papers, assorted quills and inks are unloaded from the bag.
"Not a single dollar!" Flint bangs the bag loudly on the counter, not caring that some if the customers turned around to the sudden sound of the bag hitting on the counter.
"Just loads of papers and ink!"
"It's no wonder he is always scribbling something by the table everytime." said the waitress, smiling discreetly to herself.
"And what are you smiling about? If I didn't know better, I'd say you've taken a fancy to the quiet young man whose mood preceedes that of a graveyard."
"That's not true! He's a perfectly gentle young man!"
Flint hisses, turning away from the wairesss and muttering away:
"I could never understand women and their unfounded liking to oddities."
The waitress - Emily - takes one of the papers with the curly and neat handwritings of Mr. John, reading: "The sweet, serenade of the cool evening breeze is nothing compared to her voice, like a dove from heaven, breathing life."
Emily felt herself blushing like a school girl, fancying that John sat in his usual table at present - by the windowside - scribbling something with the far off expression he usually carried. She sighs wistfully.
"I wish he would pay me some heed one day."
She read and re-read that singular line again and felt her hopes spring up.
"So passionate and yet gentle. He should be a fairly likeable fellow - winning the favour of ladies - if only he would not be so...conservative. I wonder the woman to which inspired this writing? Such a lucky woman she must be!"
Emily stuffed back the papers and ink into the suitbag - smiling all the while and entertaining herself with mid-day fantasies - of John reciting beautiful poetry dedicated in her favour.
© All Rights Reserved
#1920 #pub #inn #bar #waitress #love #crush
"Right here. I'm afraid this the only table we have left."
"It will do, thank you." replied the young man who followed the waitress in tail along with a young woman - supposedly his wife - at least as the waitress assumed.
"Have you decided what you would like to have?"
"Coffee with some warm rolls and tea for the young lady."
"Alright. It'll be delivered to your table in a minute."
As the waitress is about to leave, the young woman expresses shock at having mistakenly sat on a bag.
"What is the matter?" The waitress asks, stopped short on her way by the woman's concern.
"I think I must have sat on this bag."
"Is it not yours?" The waitress addresses the man with the woman, to which he responds irritatedly:
"Why would I put my suitbag where my woman would sit? What kind of a question is this?"
"I'm terribly sorry." The waitress quickly arrests the situation by removing the bag away from the seat and taking it with her to the order counter. Her boss, Flint, at the counter seemed precoccupied with counting bills with his fingers and wetting them with his saliva intermittently.
"Sir, I found this suitbag at one if the tables."
"Don't it belong to any of the customers?" came the hoarse reply from Flint, barely looking up from the thick sums in his hands.
"I'm afraid not although it looks vaguely familiar."
"Give it here, let me look at it."
Flint discreetly puts way the cash, taking the bag and perusing it for a moment. His eyes suddenly lit up.
"Of course! It's for the quiet gentleman that sits right there by the window!"
"Oh, you mean Mr. John?"
"Who else would I mean, you dimwit?" Flint responds harshly, turning the tobacco held between his teeth. "Maybe, I'd be lucky to find some good cash within the bag."
"Sir...I don't think that's a good idea. It would be considered...stealing."
"You can as well be boarding the next train to England if you so much as open your mouth again." Flint threatened the cowering waitress.
"America is not as refined as your proper England. Right here, you have to get your hands dirty to make gains and it's no muffin. It's hard enough to make a dollar a day."
"Of course, and I'm sorry."
"Good. Now help me unload the suitbag."
Papers, assorted quills and inks are unloaded from the bag.
"Not a single dollar!" Flint bangs the bag loudly on the counter, not caring that some if the customers turned around to the sudden sound of the bag hitting on the counter.
"Just loads of papers and ink!"
"It's no wonder he is always scribbling something by the table everytime." said the waitress, smiling discreetly to herself.
"And what are you smiling about? If I didn't know better, I'd say you've taken a fancy to the quiet young man whose mood preceedes that of a graveyard."
"That's not true! He's a perfectly gentle young man!"
Flint hisses, turning away from the wairesss and muttering away:
"I could never understand women and their unfounded liking to oddities."
The waitress - Emily - takes one of the papers with the curly and neat handwritings of Mr. John, reading: "The sweet, serenade of the cool evening breeze is nothing compared to her voice, like a dove from heaven, breathing life."
Emily felt herself blushing like a school girl, fancying that John sat in his usual table at present - by the windowside - scribbling something with the far off expression he usually carried. She sighs wistfully.
"I wish he would pay me some heed one day."
She read and re-read that singular line again and felt her hopes spring up.
"So passionate and yet gentle. He should be a fairly likeable fellow - winning the favour of ladies - if only he would not be so...conservative. I wonder the woman to which inspired this writing? Such a lucky woman she must be!"
Emily stuffed back the papers and ink into the suitbag - smiling all the while and entertaining herself with mid-day fantasies - of John reciting beautiful poetry dedicated in her favour.
© All Rights Reserved
#1920 #pub #inn #bar #waitress #love #crush
