“I’ll have an omelet with all the toppings, and can I get a side of pancakes?” I ask, suddenly starving.
She writes it down but doesn’t say anything. Then Trent orders a breakfast sandwich. And once again she rushes away from the table. I’m starting to take it personally. Do I smell? After sleeping in my van it’s a very real possibility.
When the waitress is gone, I excuse myself to the bathroom. By the time I get back, our food is at the table. The waitress might not like me, but the service isn’t half bad.
I plop down across from Trent.
“Do you ever worry that the person who handled your food didn’t wash their hands after they went to the bathroom?”
Trent freezes, the breakfast sandwich halfway to his mouth. He puts it back on his plate. “Well, now I do.”
“I’m just saying, there are always those signs in the bathroom to remind employees to wash their hands. But for most people, that’s common knowledge before graduating preschool.”
Trent leans against the vinyl booth and crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s the weirdest thing. I used to be hungry.”
“Oh, I’m sure the food was cooked hot enough to burn any leftover germs.” I add loads of butter and syrup to my pancake, undeterred.
“You’re kind of evil, you know that?”
I smirk. “It’s one of my more desirable qualities.”
Trent grudgingly picks up his food again, but I can tell now he is only eating to curb the hunger. I suppose I could have saved my random bathroom thought for after the meal. What does he think of me? He called me beautiful, but was that one of those empty compliments you offer the person who’s taking you home? I mean, I put a tire on him while he was sleeping. He can’t think I’m anything short of nuts. He’s even said so once or twice.
“How’s your food?” Our waitress returns to smack her gum above our heads.
I cringe but cover it with a polite smile. “Lovely, thank you.”
“Here’s your check.” She drops the plastic tray down on the table and I stare at it. We’ve had our food for two minutes. Trent has barely taken a bite. She’s probably just excited to get home for the holiday.
“Do you have any fun plans for Thanksgiving?” I ask, not sure why except to be kind to the poor woman working the holiday shift. I know how that goes.
“Only getting smashed out drunk the second I get home. Do you need anything else?”
A less salty attitude would be nice. “Does that jukebox work?” I ask.
“Unfortunately,” she mutters before walking away.
I grin at Trent. “You know what we’re doing right?”
“Getting smashed out drunk the second we get home?” He says, his eyes twinkling.
“We are dancing.”
He blinks at me. Once. Then twice. “It’s eight-thirty in the morning. The people here are barely mobile right now, I don’t think they want us blasting music and getting in their way.”
Yeah, I noticed the older age group when we came in. No one is going to be joining us, but that’s just fine with me.
“So?”
“We should probably just eat and go.”
I purse my lips. “Say no.”
He frowns. “I did.”
“No.” I tap my fork on my plate. “You said all the words, except for no. So tell me no, and I won’t ask again.”
His eyebrows are so close together they almost touch. “Okay…no?”
