That waitress! That waitress at the corner of Formica and stainless steel, the woman with the magnificent profile. She stepped right out of a painting, a castle, an orchard in France, a Spanish vineyard…she is as surprised at her beauty as I am.
Wrapped in a shocking green shirt and bedangled with golden hoops, she holds one hand at an angle on her right haunch as she smacks radish red lips with a disdainful pout. She pours coffee and blows her lips out…unsatisfied with her location; with her lot. There’s an eye rolling, a quick shoulder shrug, an impatient and exasperated exchange with the hostess. The afternoon air is slowed to sludge; frozen.
She glances out the far window, dark eyes searching up past the lake, over the New York vineyards, banking down the slope to the big city…tooling in at the edge of the ocean. She is long gone. A flash of mocha skin, ruby red glittery shine…she is anywhere but here; gone away from this corner of antipathy and cold coffee.
690 Saint Paul 