Al cocked one bushy eyebrow at Dottie. “It’s almost quittin’ time, and you need to finish your tables.” He gave his head a shake, as though he were talking to a petulant child and not a middle-aged waitress. “And put out that cancer stick. You know the rules.”
Dottie made a great show of stubbing out her cigarette, then shot a look at Robin. “Did Mr. ‘I Run the Show’ order you around last night, too?”
“Order her around?” Al snorted loudly. “I had to do more than that! She’s been eighty-sixed from serving coffee in the dining room!” He guffawed, then tossed a wink at Robin over his broad shoulder. “But that’s between her ’n me.” He swerved his gaze to Dottie. “Right now,you need to finish your tables.”
“I’ll finish you if you keep this up,” Dottie sassed back, checking her makeup in a small handheld mirror that she kept on a corner of the sink.
“I heard that,” said Al.
She set the mirror down. “You were supposed to.” Dottie crossed to the coffee machine, grabbed a pot and took her sweet time walking to the dining area—with Al watching her every undulating movement.
Robin wiped her hands on her apron, enjoying the show. Yesterday, after Dottie and Al had argued, Dottie had stormed out with a few choice observations about Al and his kitchen guerilla tactics. Robin thought she’d never see Dottie again and then Dottie had shown up for work today at 5:00 p.m. sharp—not her usual fifteen-or-so minutes late—acting as though nothing had happened.
But Robin would have had to be blind to believe that! Something had happened. Dottie wore a new short black skirt, tighter than what she usually wore, and her brassy blond hair was in a new curly ’do that gave her features a softer, sexier look. Robin had wondered what brought about the change in the older, tough-as-nails waitress…and got an inkling to her answer when Al sauntered into work wearing a freshly washed and ironed white shirt, a new pair of chinos and a big grin. Not only were both on time, Robin guessed they were starting to make time, too.
They still bickered and quibbled over everything, but now the exchanges had a teasing edge. Robin loved it—and also felt a bit envious. To use words that way must be absolutely divine. To verbally play with them, toy with them, seduce with them…Who needed sex shops? Robin glanced over the grill and saw Dottie heading back from the dining room, her red glossy lips smiling suggestively at Al the whole way. Poor guy. He was scraping his spatula across the grill double-time. Robin figured it was best if she left work pronto—that way, the two of them could close up alone.
But as she tossed her apron into the dirty-linen bin and grabbed her sweater for the walk home, Robin felt a pang of nostalgia. Here she was going home alone, the way she did every night. But last night, for a lovely, passionate interlude, she hadn’t been solo. She’d been part of a couple, the way Dottie and Al were tonight. The way the whole darn world seemed sometimes. Her mom often told her if she’d just stop shying away from guys, show them that she was interested, she’d have more beaus than Scarlett O’Hara.
What Robin felt her mom never understood was that it wasn’t about shying away—it was about speaking up. But because she was quiet with most people, they took it to mean that she wasn’t interested. That’s one of the reasons Robin admired Emily Dickinson. From what Robin had read about the famous poet, they were alike—quiet on the outside, passionate inside.
Robin’s mind flitted back to last night. Maybe her voice had been quiet, but her body had spoken volumes! And Johnny—the fantasy man of her childhood dreams—had heard every nuance. Words hadn’t been necessary. Their bodies had conversed and interacted in a way she never had with any other guy. She touched the top button of her white rayon dress, remembering how Johnny had suckled and nibbled that button—for a heat-drenched moment last night, she’d thought he was going to rip it off with his bare teeth, then devour her dress, her slip…
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