2012-05-13 - 12:07 p.m.
It began with waffles, of all things. I had left a plate of half-eaten waffles at my table while I got up to pee. When I came back, they were gone. I had it out with the waitress, a tall woman who might have played softball, and she took it out on the busboy, a large Mexican man with a tear tattooed beneath his eye. We all three had different opinions of the situation, but despite this had reached an accord as to where our mutual paths might lead: toward a new plate of strawberry waffles with whipped cream for yours truly.
Had I not then looked out through the front door of the establishment, as it opened to let in a family of six, I would never have seen the short, red-headed girl walking past outside.
She's got hair the color of strawberries, I thought.
And then, perfectly in step, she looked right at me. It was a look a man can't soon forget. Sad and worried, yet strong. Confident. And suddenly in my mind was a woman's voice I'd never heard before:
How sweet.
And it was done. She walked on. That's when my second round of waffles arrived, bringing with them a conundrum of the most immediate order.
