Author S. K. Nicholas

The waitress is Italian, at least I think she is. She smiles shyly. It could be genuine, or perhaps it’s just for show, I’m not sure. She’s brunette, and whenever she walks by my table, I can’t help but eye her up. There’s a certain philosophy to our interactions; a hidden truth with a weight that runs deeper than mere flirting. Could be I’m drunk, but it doesn’t seem that way. If she discovered I was a writer, she’d have me kicked out for sure. If she knew the thoughts in my head, she’d gouge out my eyes then drown me in my bowl of tomato soup. Or maybe it would tickle her to know the images running through my dirty mind? Whatever, it’s not important. Stepping out for a cigarette, the night isn’t real; the reality of it escapes me somehow. Breathing out a mouthful of smoke, I glance up at two passing lovers before continuing to inspect a map of the observable universe on my phone, because whenever things seem unreal, knowing how insignificant I am helps put things in perspective. And just how small we all are; mere dots dreaming of love and freedom. Pieces of binary code, wishing there was something other than the crappy hands we were dealt with to get us through these unchanging days. Stepping back inside, my Italian mistress asks if I’m okay. She wants to know if there’s anything she can do for me, but it’s too late; the idea of being sucked into a black hole has already taken hold. Sat looking around the restaurant unsure of what’s happening, I notice the girl over at the next table smiling in my direction. Hot and seductive as our eyes meet, it feels as if I’m in a movie. Feels like I’m about to follow her to the toilets before taking her hard and ungentlemanly like. But who’s she sat there having her meal with? Not only is it her boyfriend, but he’s got one of those fucking awful haircuts, y’know, the one where the guy has his hair tied in a little bun on top of his head. Jesus, she’s hotter than molten lava, and yet she’s dating such a dickweed. It’s enough to make me shudder. The Italian asks if I’m cold, to which I foolishly reply yes. Giggling to herself, she fetches over a fan to blow hot air over me. I should feel grateful, but it’s humiliating, and so the only thing to do is order a whisky; a Jim Beam on the rocks if you must know, and drown my sorrows. It’s my birthday, but it’s more like a funeral.