She turned toward him as he walked in the room, continuing in her thick New York accent.

“And then one of the other waitresses says to me ‘And then this motherfucker shows me the condoms in his glove box and tells me to get in. Can you believe the nerve of these fucks?’” 

He glanced toward her, silently.

“You gotta be patient to be a waitress. Because you gotta deal with all types. You gotta deal with the drunks and you gotta deal with the assholes. I mean, some people are nice, but if you get foreigners, you can’t understand what they’re sayin’ so you gotta be real patient and take your time.”

She stared at him, flaring crooked buck teeth and wide, lidless eyes.

“Once I had this table of foreigners. I couldn’t tell what the fuck they were saying. Took me like 20 minutes to get their goddamn order. Yeah, you gotta be patient to be a waitress.”

Facing ahead now, he hadn’t looked long enough to see if she blinks.

“And then this one time this lady comes in with her son and her husband and her fucking huge ass is hanging off the seat, food all over herself and she says to me ‘I don't want that, you look like you pissed in my food. You’re a fucking slob.’ I said bitch I didn’t piss in your food there's cooks back there I don’t make this shit.”

The two men gaze at one another across the room.

“I'm fucking roasting in here I gotta take a break. I worry about my phone. I see people with their phones in here and I worry it's going to get fried. Mine turns off in the sun and shit anyways.”

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