The tale of a lust of an older woman for a younger man.

A blonde waitress with a grubby black pen and a pad of paper, came strolling over, a wad of pink gum clung haphazardly between her teeth as she slid her tongue through it, then collapsed her lips over the loop. Her hair was matted and blonde, if it wasn't for the acne-scarred face, she'd be worth a second look. A navy-blue outfit shrouded her relatively curvy body, a black and white striped apron hugged her hips. The name tag that rested on her natural double-D's read: Carmen. She looked like a Carmen.

“Can I take your order?” she asked before popping a bubble in her mouth, a metallic web work of intercity dentistry. The incessant chewing, grotesque, aggravated Sheila as she perused her menu. Her eyes went from top to bottom several times, often stopping at the “Kitchen Special”: a plate of fries, a thick quarter pound of beef-burger and cole slaw with cup of coffee or juice.

“I'll have the Kitchen Special,” she said, rolling the menu out of her hand into the awaiting waitress' fingers, then collapsed her hands together and stared off into the diner. It was a Sunday, close to midday, the sun peaked over grey clouds. Bald heads, bun-wrapped hair and baseball caps filled the seats of the relatively low-key diner. Each booth was ancient, near archaic in aesthetics, but it worked. The decently comfy seats were wrapped in a red shiny plastic and sewn at the seams with black thread.

The tables had a chrome chassis which rested under hardwood tabletops encased in cheap plastic. Underneath the clear casing, advertisements and little anecdotes that date back decades. Sheila often frequented the establishment, she enjoyed the food, especially the prices, and on days she's lucky, she got to see the cook, who she fancied. He was younger, no older than 22, tall, dark and handsome. He looked of Italian descent, but he could also be Native American, possibly Navajo. He had long black hair that was always tied in a ponytail. His cheek bones were high and crisp, like his granite carved jaw, they accentuated his grey eyes that caught light in a way she had never seen before.

Being middle-aged, Sheila knew she never stood a chance of being with him, knowing this she still visited the diner hoping to see him every time. After her brutal divorce, she felt more lonely with each passing day, and seeing him livened her otherwise vacant soul, nourished it to a point of fulfilment.

“You check out that game last night? Boston won, 6-2, complete fuckin' domination,” said a portly patron two booths over, Sheila was all ears. She enjoyed the banter between random people, sometimes learning a thing or two.

The End

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