Tuesday, August 30, 2011

The Reluctant Waitress

There's a place I go many mornings for breakfast. I've been there so often, most of the waitresses know my name, and I theirs. They say hi to me, even if I'm not at one of their tables.

Except for one. She's pleasant enough if I'm her customer; otherwise, she'll look the other way when I come in, or studiously examine a check until I pass. If I say 'good morning' as I walk by, she'll pretend she didn't hear me while everyone else says 'good morning' or 'hi'.

Naturally, I'm somewhat attracted to her. Is it because she so clearly dislikes me, or does she dislike me because she senses I'm attracted to her? Or maybe it's both — kind of a closed feedback loop?

I'm not pushing it. In fact, I'll avoid sitting at her tables if I can, because it's so obvious I make her uncomfortable.

She seems to chat up the guys who have short hair and NASCAR-logoed windbreakers. I wouldn't put on a NASCAR windbreaker to get close to Milla Jovovich dressed in nothing but three strategically-placed cups of chocolate pudding, so I'm certainly not getting one to wear to breakfast.

I wonder though, what it is that makes about one out of twenty women kind of cringe when they see me coming.

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