rolls.”
She glides off with a toss of her hair, leaving Roy to sit there bemused and perplexed. He assumes that one of their other staff members must have told her what he orders, because it’s true—he orders the same thing almost every week, occasionally breaking it up with a taco salad or the fish and chips. It’s an easy explanation. What isn’t so easily explained is the almost instant connection he feels toward her. It’s not sexual. Not exactly. Yes, there’s a component of that, but it’s not lost on him that she’s half his age and far out of his league. No, this attraction runs deeper than that. The waitress reminds Roy of someone from his past, but when he thinks about it, he is unsure who. He can’t help but feel that he has known her before.
Ultimately, Roy ascribes it to loneliness. A friendly, pretty, intelligent girl made conversation with him. Of course he felt something. And wonderful that was—to feel again, if only for a moment.
A different waitress walks by, attending to the other patrons. Roy recognizes her. She has waited on him before. Her nametag says she is MARSHA. She smiles and nods at him as she walks by. Roy returns the gesture.
Yes, he decides, Marsha must have told the new girl. I bet she also told her how well I tip.
He does, always leaving at least twenty-five percent. Roy is aware that a lot of people in this small town know who he is, even if they’d rather chew broken glass than read a book for pleasure. He is also aware that they assume all writers must be as financially well-off as Stephen King, Nora Roberts, and John Grisham. Roy is not. He mostly lives royalty check to royalty check, and those are beginning to dry up, due to his prolonged period of inactivity. Despite his encroaching poverty, he always tips well, worried that his fellow townspeople will see him as a cheapskate if he doesn’t. It’s the same reason he’s polite to store clerks and always gives the right of way when driving. Appearances are important, especially in a small town.
He’s thinking about this when his waitress returns with his iced tea and some dinner rolls. She sets them down in front of him.
“Thanks,” Roy says.
“You’re welcome.”
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you end up working here?”
“My previous employer laid me off.”
“I’m sorry. There’s a lot of that going around these days.”
“I’m sorry, too. But this job isn’t so bad. It’s something to do until I find another. And it’s good for people watching.”
“You’re a people watcher too, huh?”
“Oh, yes. I like living vicariously.”
Roy grins. “Yeah, I do a fair amount of that.”
“I know.”
Roy blinks. “You do?”
The waitress nods. “I know that you’re lonely. I know you feel trapped in a job with no 401K, no retirement, and no health insurance. I know that job feels more pointless every day, and you keep wondering what the point is.”
“Trust me, a lot of writers in my pay range feel that way.”
“I know that your last girlfriend moved out a year and a half ago. You met her at a book signing. She was a fan of your work. Before she moved out, she told you that while the fantasy of dating you had been exciting, the reality of being in a relationship with you was anything but. You did not blame her. You’ve never liked living with yourself either. I know that when you were writing, you spent all day in your head. I know that you’re doing that still, but now your head is empty. I know that your parents are dead, you have no siblings, and no children, and no heirs. For the last year, you’ve been wondering who to will your literary estate to, and it bothers you that there’s no one to assign the rights to your work. I know that—”
“Wait a second,” Roy says, louder than he intended. “This is getting creepy. What did you do, Google me back there in the kitchen? Don’t believe everything you read about me online.”
“I know that the reason you
She glides off with a toss of her hair, leaving Roy to sit there bemused and perplexed. He assumes that one of their other staff members must have told her what he orders, because it’s true—he orders the same thing almost every week, occasionally breaking it up with a taco salad or the fish and chips. It’s an easy explanation. What isn’t so easily explained is the almost instant connection he feels toward her. It’s not sexual. Not exactly. Yes, there’s a component of that, but it’s not lost on him that she’s half his age and far out of his league. No, this attraction runs deeper than that. The waitress reminds Roy of someone from his past, but when he thinks about it, he is unsure who. He can’t help but feel that he has known her before.
Ultimately, Roy ascribes it to loneliness. A friendly, pretty, intelligent girl made conversation with him. Of course he felt something. And wonderful that was—to feel again, if only for a moment.
A different waitress walks by, attending to the other patrons. Roy recognizes her. She has waited on him before. Her nametag says she is MARSHA. She smiles and nods at him as she walks by. Roy returns the gesture.
Yes, he decides, Marsha must have told the new girl. I bet she also told her how well I tip.
He does, always leaving at least twenty-five percent. Roy is aware that a lot of people in this small town know who he is, even if they’d rather chew broken glass than read a book for pleasure. He is also aware that they assume all writers must be as financially well-off as Stephen King, Nora Roberts, and John Grisham. Roy is not. He mostly lives royalty check to royalty check, and those are beginning to dry up, due to his prolonged period of inactivity. Despite his encroaching poverty, he always tips well, worried that his fellow townspeople will see him as a cheapskate if he doesn’t. It’s the same reason he’s polite to store clerks and always gives the right of way when driving. Appearances are important, especially in a small town.
He’s thinking about this when his waitress returns with his iced tea and some dinner rolls. She sets them down in front of him.
“Thanks,” Roy says.
“You’re welcome.”
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, how did you end up working here?”
“My previous employer laid me off.”
“I’m sorry. There’s a lot of that going around these days.”
“I’m sorry, too. But this job isn’t so bad. It’s something to do until I find another. And it’s good for people watching.”
“You’re a people watcher too, huh?”
“Oh, yes. I like living vicariously.”
Roy grins. “Yeah, I do a fair amount of that.”
“I know.”
Roy blinks. “You do?”
The waitress nods. “I know that you’re lonely. I know you feel trapped in a job with no 401K, no retirement, and no health insurance. I know that job feels more pointless every day, and you keep wondering what the point is.”
“Trust me, a lot of writers in my pay range feel that way.”
“I know that your last girlfriend moved out a year and a half ago. You met her at a book signing. She was a fan of your work. Before she moved out, she told you that while the fantasy of dating you had been exciting, the reality of being in a relationship with you was anything but. You did not blame her. You’ve never liked living with yourself either. I know that when you were writing, you spent all day in your head. I know that you’re doing that still, but now your head is empty. I know that your parents are dead, you have no siblings, and no children, and no heirs. For the last year, you’ve been wondering who to will your literary estate to, and it bothers you that there’s no one to assign the rights to your work. I know that—”
“Wait a second,” Roy says, louder than he intended. “This is getting creepy. What did you do, Google me back there in the kitchen? Don’t believe everything you read about me online.”
“I know that the reason you
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