Amanda
She arrives as the brunch is about to end. The old, fat guy with her must be her father.
You know, in books, when they say stuff like, "She had the face of an angel"-- and you think that it doesn't mean anything and really even cheap writers should know better than use that cliche? Well, sometimes a girl with beautiful long, curly red hair and blue eyes sits on table 7 with an old, fat guy that must be her father, and the only thing you can say to make people see how beautiful she was is to say that she had the face of an angel, because the first time you set your eyes on her that is what crossed your mind.
She must be 20, maybe. Less than 23, anyway. She had a camomille tea. The old man had an Earl Grey. She wears a pink dress. She is not skinny (I mean it as a good thing.) She wears flat sole shoes, which is a kind of disappointment because you can tell she would look great with any kind of high-heel shoes, but at least she's not wearing flip-flops.
Later, when she leaves, I see her past the door, her hair glowing, catching the sun. She wears black high-heels shoes and I was right. Then I go to her table to clean it. There is glasses and mugs and some papers on the table. I carry as much as I can to the kitchen and the trash.
Later, I hear the runner talk about a girl. A customer. He seems to be talking about the redhead girl so I ask him what happened. He says he founds a note on the table for us.
On the note, it says that her name is Amanda. That she'll be in the City all summer and that she is looking for a job as a hostess. She says she has some experience. She says she also has experience in other fields. I should have kept the note. I cannot reproduce here the feeling it conveyed. There was something in the way she left it on the table for us to find (it was bearing the date of that day, and it was clearly not a draft for something else.) Also, you couldn't help but read in between the lines.
It says that she also left her resume with picture, but it must be the paper I trashed because we couldn't find it. I'm the kind of waiter that respects his customers' privacy. I don't eavesdrop on conversations, I don't read the stuff people leaves on tables. Even so, you already hear more than you want to, just walking past tables with a salade norvegienne in one hand and a plate of eggs benedicte in the other.
The contrast between what she wrote and what she looked like was uncanny.
Where I'm working there is no hostess. It's not that kind of place. I couldn't help but learn her email address. I was confused after reading the note. I didn't know what I would want to do or not to do later. But now, I know I am not going to write to her.
You know, in books, when they say stuff like, "She had the face of an angel"-- and you think that it doesn't mean anything and really even cheap writers should know better than use that cliche? Well, sometimes a girl with beautiful long, curly red hair and blue eyes sits on table 7 with an old, fat guy that must be her father, and the only thing you can say to make people see how beautiful she was is to say that she had the face of an angel, because the first time you set your eyes on her that is what crossed your mind.
She must be 20, maybe. Less than 23, anyway. She had a camomille tea. The old man had an Earl Grey. She wears a pink dress. She is not skinny (I mean it as a good thing.) She wears flat sole shoes, which is a kind of disappointment because you can tell she would look great with any kind of high-heel shoes, but at least she's not wearing flip-flops.
Later, when she leaves, I see her past the door, her hair glowing, catching the sun. She wears black high-heels shoes and I was right. Then I go to her table to clean it. There is glasses and mugs and some papers on the table. I carry as much as I can to the kitchen and the trash.
Later, I hear the runner talk about a girl. A customer. He seems to be talking about the redhead girl so I ask him what happened. He says he founds a note on the table for us.
On the note, it says that her name is Amanda. That she'll be in the City all summer and that she is looking for a job as a hostess. She says she has some experience. She says she also has experience in other fields. I should have kept the note. I cannot reproduce here the feeling it conveyed. There was something in the way she left it on the table for us to find (it was bearing the date of that day, and it was clearly not a draft for something else.) Also, you couldn't help but read in between the lines.
It says that she also left her resume with picture, but it must be the paper I trashed because we couldn't find it. I'm the kind of waiter that respects his customers' privacy. I don't eavesdrop on conversations, I don't read the stuff people leaves on tables. Even so, you already hear more than you want to, just walking past tables with a salade norvegienne in one hand and a plate of eggs benedicte in the other.
The contrast between what she wrote and what she looked like was uncanny.
Where I'm working there is no hostess. It's not that kind of place. I couldn't help but learn her email address. I was confused after reading the note. I didn't know what I would want to do or not to do later. But now, I know I am not going to write to her.
posted by Cecyl at 11:12 PM
2 Comments:
you are not going to write her but you wrote about her, so maybe it´s enough...yesterday i remembered so much cause in my radio program i played french music in my blog is the playlist...take care and good luck dear yann.
But I think you were supposed to write
her. Shit happens for a reason, and it's up to us to see the signs that the universe throws at us.
How do you know she waasn't struck by you the same way? Maybe she was thinking more than you were able to convey here ( you say that you couldn't help but read between the lines). It almost sounds like
she wanted to make new friends while in the city for the summer.
Maybe the moment has passed, maybe it IS too late to write her - but
I think you were supposed to, I think she wanted you to, but being with her father, a girl can only do
or say so much when it comes to talking or flirting with guys that
she likes.
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