Salad and wine at a pizza den. Unusual. Slipping down plastic chair-stool in polyester shorts; constant readjustment, calm, not agitated. The dry heat of the kitchen against the after-precipitation perspiration of spring-outside. Crushed cars towed along the road. The propaganda of a television set's six o'clock news chilled by the fallacy-free purpose of the soda machine it rests upon. Diet Pepsi.
This is waiting for cheesesteaks at a down-the-street pizzeria.
Waitress, waiting. Forgets to ask an old man what kind of sauce he'd like on his pasta. Hoping this mistake means more flaws, and honesty. Observing, waiting for her to turn to see her face. Knee-length jean skirt, ankle-high black socks. Absence of makeup; no presence of fashion with her hair pulled back in pony-tail. Logoed shirt fitting but form-hiding. Nonetheless, pretty, potentially beautiful. Pure. Practical. Her hiddenness turns me on.
This is the allure of plainness, the attractiveness of reservation.
