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"Welcome to Dan's Diner," I exclaim. "What can I get for ya?"
The table I wait has four people. A double-date, I believe. The two girls are very, very gorgeous. I almost compliment them, but they are eyeing me suspiciously, so I focus on their dates instead, which only makes the suspicion grow.
Three of them order chocolate shakes without whipped cream, while the fourth orders a vanilla shake with whipped cream. I pretend jot that down in the cute notebook Big D gave me, but really I'm just drawing flowers. My memory isn't the greatest, but today will be the day that I conquer making drinks without any notes!
In the middle of making the last chocolate milkshake, Big D comes up to me. I tilt my face away from him, just in case the makeup covering my bruise wore off.
"Feeling bettah?" he asks. He watches me continue making the shakes. (Better).
"Much!" I respond. There's a beat of silence as he studies me. "I'm going to mess up if you keep watching me, Big D," I don't look at him as I say this, poking my tongue out slightly as I try to perfectly apply the Reddi Wip.
He laughs. Then, he informs me, "A customah came in looking for you yesterday." (customer).
I pause, a wide smile creeping onto my lips. "Who?"
Someone was looking for me? Aww, I feel so special! Shucks, I wasn't there! I knew I shouldn't of lied about being sick. Karma really is a female dog.
"Dunno," Big D shrugs.
Well, that's helpful...not at all. "Okay," I say slowly, putting all my focus into making the vanilla shake. Remember Athalia, no whipped cream on this one.
The door chimes open. "Ah, and he's back," says Big D. He walks back into the kitchen, shouting orders at the cooks.
I remove my focus from the shakes, and look up at the customer walking in.
Mr. Pretty takes a seat in front of me, removing his fancy leather jacket and putting it on the counter. He leans in, and despite my best efforts, I swallow.
"You weren't here yesterday."
I stare into his eyes. Did I mention that they are absolutely beautiful? That seems like an odd thing to say about a strangers eyes, but goodness gracious they should be a crayon color.
Then I remember he's waiting for a response, even though technically I don't need to respond because it wasn't a question. I could just walk away. But of course, I don't walk away.
"I wasn't feeling good," I answer finally.
He watches me carefully, questioningly, like he can sense the lie. His eyes land on my cheek, and he squints, trying to make out something on my face.
There's a straw on the counter in front of me. I swipe it off so it drops and I have to pick it up, bringing my face out of Mr. Pretty's view.
Was my bruise uncovered? Oh, no, please tell me he didn't see it. I knew I should've applied more concealer.
