I’m eating at this crummy cafe, wondering about the age of the mushrooms in my omelet, when I see this waitress who looks remarkably like… whatshername? The woman from the bar at the hotel I stayed at last year when I was stuck in this godforsaken town. Eileen? Arlene?
I remember her because she really surprised me in bed. When we were done and she left, I didn’t even mind that my watch went missing. It was a knockoff anyway.
She doesn’t look as good as in my memory, but who does? Of course, the cheap florescent lighting in this place would make Angelina Jolie look haggard.
Anyway, she’s bending and reaching to clean off a table in a short skirt, so I get a good look at her legs. Last time I saw them, they were wrapped around me tight as a bandage. I remember how she wouldn’t let loose until she climaxed.
She cried afterwards, like this wasn’t something she did all the time. I felt bad and held her for a while. I remember her telling me about her ex-husband, a real loser. Ran up her credit cards and left her. An old story, I know. I expected her to ask me for a loan. Of course I was ready to say no, but she didn’t ask.
She seemed determined to get out of town and make a life for herself. That’s another reason I didn’t mind her taking my watch. Maybe stealing left her with more self-respect than asking for money after sex?
I wonder if I should call her over and say hi, show her there are no hard feelings. No hard feelings? That’s funny, especially remembering that night.
She’s carrying two pots of coffee. I wave to her.
“Decaf or hi test?” she asks, showing no sign of remembering me.
I flash my best smile. “Decaf, please.”
She fills my cup from the orange pot without changing her expression and walks away before I can say anything.
I’m sure it’s her, but I guess I wasn’t as memorable as she was. I feel a little let down, like losing an old friend. If it weren’t so crazy, I’d say I’m half falling in love with her.
I call over the waitress who served me and ask for the bill. The coffee’s cold and the omelet isn’t worth eating.
The waitress comes back and says Ellen covered my check. “Something about a watch.”
I look for Ellen, but she’s no where to be found.
Wayne Scheer has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. He’s published hundred of stories, poems and essays in print and online, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories, available at http://issuu.com/pearnoir/docs/revealing_moments. A short film has also been produced based on his short story, “Zen and the Art of House Painting.”
Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife and can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.
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