Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 104766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Cute and pretty and tall?
She enunciates every word.
I laugh. “I’m a real dude magnet with these daddy long legs.” If you consider five-foot-six tall.
“Would you stop being so self-deprecating and appreciate the fact that you have a guy who likes you? Diego Lorenz, who, by the way, is an actual catch.”
“That’s already been established.”
A customer comes in and sits in a corner booth, and the server, Monica—who was already on shift—goes over to greet her.
As veterans of the establishment, Win and I sit in the corner booth, filling salt shakers and wrapping silverware for the late shift.
In companionable silence, we each take a paper napkin, set a fork, spoon, and butter knife inside, and then roll it up. Wrap a paper ring around it to hold it together, then start all over again, stacking them in a basket for later.
Winnie cocks her head to the side as she focuses out the window. Sits up straighter, at attention, like a pointer dog that sees a bird in the distance.
“You know, that’s the second time I’ve seen that boy going into that theater.”
“Boy? What are we doing, spying on people now?”
“Not just any people.” Winnie stops rolling to stare. “Dallas Colter.” She stares through the window, across the street, where the little local movie theater rests, old and archaic and playing only vintage shows.
“Oooo, Dallas Colter.” I repeat his name the same way she crooned it, breathy and excited-like. “Who?”
She directs her shocked expression my way. “Dallas Colter?” She waits for recognition to fill my face and, when it doesn’t, looks disgusted. “The Dallas Colter?”
“He has a the in front of his name now? Oo la la.”
Winnie is not amused. “Are you being serious right now?”
“What?” I roll my eyes as I place more napkins on the table. “Is it a crime not to know who someone is?”
“No, but come on. Even I know who he is, and I don’t watch sports.”
Yeah, Winnie is less of the scholastic type than I am. She always has her finger on the pulse of the campus.
“I don’t watch sports either.” Professional or otherwise, which is why I don’t know who he is. “So I guess he’s an athlete.”
Winnie snorts. Glances over her shoulder and shouts to Kyle, the line cook we can see flipping burgers in the kitchen. “Yo, Kyle, who is Dallas Colter?”
Kyle only glances up for a few seconds. “Best quarterback in the Big Ten, junior, was nominated for the Heisman, predicted to go early in the NFL draft.”
Winnie looks pleased with herself. “See?”
“I mean, is that even fair? Kyle is a nerd when it comes to that stuff.”
“Kyle is a nerd when it comes to everything,” Winnie teases.
“I heard that,” comes the voice from the kitchen.
My bestie leans across the table and lowers her voice. “Dallas Colter is so hot. Like—so hot.”
“Uh-huh.” I get to work unscrewing the salt and pepper shakers so we can top them off.
“Maybe he’ll come out while we’re sitting here,” she says. “I saw him go in last week around the same time, which is odd since they’re only showing black-and-white movies from the forties.” Winnie pulls a face. “Boring.”
“You think everything that doesn’t include hair and makeup and music is boring.”
“Facts.”
We make short work of our mundane task, finishing so we can do actual work as customers begin pouring in for the dinner hour. It’s not a rush but a slow, steady trickle, totally manageable for the three servers who are working this shift.
Winnie watches for the almighty Dallas Colter to reappear. She hasn’t said she’s watching for him, but her interest in the building across the street is a dead giveaway as she wipes down tables and brings customers their food. Fills their water glasses. Brings extra napkins.
All the while, her eyes are gazing outside.
I watch Winnie watching the window, obviously—people-watching is what I do, and my friends are no exception. Plus, she’s fun to observe.
All in all, work is the same as it is the rest of the nights of the week, uneventful because I only have to work the dinner shift and not the night shift, when students come in drunk and hungry after hitting the bars.
Sometimes they’re high.
We get the occasional rowdy crowd, too, and sadly I’m more than adept at kicking people out.
Le sigh.
“Up to anything tonight?” I ask Winnie when it’s time to clock out, punching my card in the machine hanging next to the walk-in refrigerator against the back wall.
“Yeah, Rookie and I are going to a party.” She wraps a scarf around her face, pulling a pair of mittens out of her pockets like it’s winter outside already. “Thirsty Thursday and all that.”
Thirsty Thursday—big night of the week for drinking, if you don’t count Trashed Tuesday, Wasted Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday among them.
“That sounds like fun.”
Actually, it doesn’t, but that’s neither here nor there.