Melinda

Keeping careful track of the way she stacks one glass into another, I repeat her pattern. Quickly the clinking glasses lull me into the deep sigh of my thoughts. The tiny restaurant, sturdy tables in plastic, the man in the bowler eating a Reuben. Soft chuckles escape his beard, and he sneaks glances at my butt, not covered by the apron that frees my hands from restaurant grime. I have stacked all of the glasses.