At Her Insistence

As he walks by:

“Excuse me?” she says. “Waiter.”

He stops.
His head turns.

The many creases in her brow staring him down; she says, “Yes, um. This salad doesn’t have enough character.”

His mouth hangs open a brief moment before saying, “I’m not a waiter.”

She nods once; says, “Mm-hm. Would you fetch me one?”

He blinks at her once; says, “O… Okay.”

And he turns and he walks back the way he came.

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