On Valentine's Day serving at a restaurant
I saw women with
full plates left behind, with
burgers missing three bites after an hour, with
empty carafes that once held three glasses of wine—
not shared with their dates—with
a fourth glass, also empty,
that once held the attention
of a shocked male gaze,
post fixating on her low-cut top and
where its tightness hugged her body,
her skin.
On Valentine's Day serving at a restaurant
I watched the face of a woman I offered a dessert menu to
drop, drain itself of excitement,
after her date said to her,
"Spring break is coming soon,
you don't need dessert."
I watched the gossip slither out from between my lips
into the ears of my petty coworker right before she
pranced over to the table and
made our dessert menu its centerpiece.
At some point, said menu was turned upside down,
ignored.
On Valentine's Day serving at a restaurant
I watched a woman eat a two-person dessert alone,
her date distracted on his phone.
Five minutes passed as she swirled the chocolate,
thick, dark, gooey, rich, dark,
with her fork.
I asked them how it tastes,
all of it
while my finger secretly drips blood behind my back
thick, dark, gooey, rich, red—
fast-paced kitchen accident—
and she tosses out a snide remark,
"He wouldn't know.
He hasn't tried it yet."
Suddenly I'm playing referee,
cushioning his embarrassment with
my awkward laughs,
calling fouls on his excuses.
I find them slow dancing
in the middle of the restaurant
ten minutes later.
Us women tend to forgive and forget.
Big hearts.
On Valentine's Day serving at a restaurant
I find a lot of women settling.
Their cheeks flushed with embarrassment
watching their date order.
Genuinely laughing at my chipper
greeting, "Happy Valentine's Day!"
I wonder how many pairs just met
on a dating app that evening,
trying to escape the unavoidable loneliness
that comes with the holiday,
or how many women walked back through those
double wooden doors two hours later
having gained some faint appreciation
for their own company.
How many let out a sigh of relief
climbing into bed alone that night.
The peace and quiet welcome at last.
On Valentine's Day serving at a restaurant,
a nice young man compliments my heart-shaped earrings
while his date beams
and the cynical part of me wonders
if it’s to earn him brownie points.
If his compliment is a point of her pride.
And maybe that's just it—
maybe I'm cynical,
because the older I get
I find a performance in everything.
The performance of a holiday
created to celebrate love—
of each other or oneself—
and I see why children hold so much more excitement for it.
They haven't yet faced heartbreak
or even the catastrophe of
not quite loving themselves.
They haven't grown into
that prevalent bitterness found in adulthood.
On Valentine's Day serving at a restaurant
I was stiffed and hoped
the woman wouldn't be going home with
the man and his poor manners that night.
Reflecting on the evening, I realized
the happiest couple I served
held hands across the cramped table.
They were the youngest couple of the night.
The only ones who didn't order alcoholic drinks
and still had pubescent acne.
She was out of his league,
but I didn't read any embarrassment on her face.
I only found love and admiration behind her eyes—
that intense infatuation that comes with a first love.
Was she settling?
Was it just that he was her first love?
Or had she discovered the secret:
focus on what's hiding beneath
the wrinkled button up shirt.
The guy missing an ego
and clear skin.
I watched as he waited ten minutes
for her to come back from the bathroom
to pay the bill with cash.
He wanted to show her he could be a provider,
his first love.
They're too young to notice all the chaos that surrounds them.
I have a scar on my finger now
from my near fatality in the kitchen that night.
Sometimes I look down and fixate on it.
All of it.
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