Speak To Me

Chapter 3

"Can I Take Your Order?" I lousily ask the group of four teenage girls at the table booth.
Great, another day of my dreadful routine that is so called, "life".

They browse through the restaurant menu, searching for their next meal.
After minutes of slow reading, one young lady in the corner finally announces, "I'll take the egg salad, with a side of ranch, please."
I quickly write down her request and wait for the other orders. Not wanting to waste anymore time, another girl sitting on the outside of the booth quickly orders the same salad, while the last two order the grilled cheese sandwich, all wanting Sweetened Ice Tea.
"Okay, coming right up." I traditionally state.
As I walk away to place their order to the chef, I hear whispers, teenage giggles, and pointing, directly my way, all coming from the previous booth I just walked from.
I try avoiding that table, until I hear the slight "ding" from the bell, telling me that the chef completed their orders.
As soon as I hear the sound, I quickly grab the tray of delicious smelling food and place it on top of my hand. Carefully, I slide down the tray, not wanting to spill the food or drinks, then I quickly try and hustle in the opposite direction. Just as I'm about to turn, I'm interrupted.
"Excuse me", one of the teenage girls, who looks as if she's sixteen, and has brunette hair, blue crystal eyes, and pink lips, quite a beautiful complexion, politely asks, "My gals and I were wondering what your name was?"
Without saying a word, I use my pen tip to slightly tap my plastic name tag which reads "Dan", on the cover.
The four young girls suddenly begin to silently giggle amongst one another, making me blush and feel completely socially awkward.
A girl across the booth, with highlighted blond hair, pure brown eyes, and bright red lipstick lips, the face that looks like fifteen, then climbs into the conversation, "So," she hesitates, "How old are you?"
The giggles rise once more.
I feel entirely uncomfortable with sharing my age with a bunch of young girls who I guess are trying to "hit on me", per say.
But, all of their variety colored of eyes pressure me, making me feel the heat, and I eventually blurt out, "I'm twenty one."
As soon as that is said, the expressions on their faces become blank and dull, seeming disappointed in the age difference, which isn't that much in between, though. I guess they don't prefer older men, it's not like I'm interested anyways, I actually wasn't at all flattered.
When all becomes silent, I flash a friendly grin towards them, and speed away.
As I'm walking away, I can't help but think to myself that this is what it's come to in my life. I'm twenty one years old and a waiter in a middle classed restaurant, being hit on by young teenaged ladies.