the sadness of a single line

I was a full-time waitress. It was an interesting learning curve.

One particular day, I was observing the behaviour of rain. I watched it score liquid lines on the white-blue wash of glass walls between me and the world. All day it poured, not dripped; glib watery onslaught. In memory, it appeared slow-motion like liquid methane on titan - a byword for boredom. Through the sheen, a samaritan sought shelter under the white outdoor arcade.

Silver-haired, he flopped on the chair to eat chips. They looked salty, warm and dry with grease. He seemed tired, grateful and cold with rain. Cue wringed hands and a pained expression. Boss gave the nod and looked on expectantly. He was the kind of restaurateur we all abide. A stereotype: inflated stomach and ego, misogynist, and lacking human warmth. As server, it was my job to rid our chair of the customless bottom.

Reluctantly, I sidled up to the elderly gent. I did ask him to move and for this I repent. I blamed it on the boss - claimed higher power, peaceful sneaky flower (I am, I am!)  Cue wringed hands and pained expression, crease upon crease stacked slow and year upon year of "Well I never, flower! Whatever happened to the milk of human kindness, eh?"

I strode back in to the soundtrack of a million raindrops, scoring liquid lines on the white-blue wash of glass walls between me and the world. 'Never again', I shook my head. For this, I will never repent.