Blunt

Yellow Flower

"No, dad, the table's dirty..."

He hurried his steps to the father and daughter, a napkin and a sanitizing spray on his hands. It was lunch time. People always comes back to the diner for lunch, for no reason other than the diner being in the center of the town, even though all they sell here is pancake. And sometimes, fruit punches.

The daughter had a cascading, beautiful ginger hair down to her waist - but he couldn't help but to think that her frown looked as if it was imprinted there, from her birth. She reminded him of a beautiful, well groomed orangutan he once saw in the zoo years ago.

He mentally cursed. There he goes, judging others by their appearances again. He hates it when he does such thing.

The father, a tough looking old man in his forties, looked not much different from his daughter. The same shiny ginger hair perched on his head, neatly combed, without the use of hairgel. He looked meek as he stood next to his daughter, his fingers craddling his brown leather wallet. When he reached their table, a look of relieve crossed over his face, as if he had just saved him from a life and death situation.

Well, looking at the daughter - who had both her hands resting on her waist - he would have found himself intimidated too. He was intimidated. But facing tough and cruel customers is his daily job, and if no one volunteers to do so, who would serve this hungry-and-angry people?

He quickly wiped the table and sprayed some sanitizer, fixed the chairs, and picked up the empty plates ang glasses. He wondered if they would say thank you - they didn't. So he ran back to the dishwashing room, grabbed a notepad and the menu book, and went back to the father-daughter pair before they snap and decide that he was incapable enough to receive tips. He couldn't live on his salary alone; he needed tips. Badly, at that.

The daughter inspected the menu book as soon as she got her hands on it. There was nothing much to look at, of course, besides the varieties of pancakes and its toppings and waffles. But people, even regulars who everyday come to the diner, seemed to like to leave through the pages of the hand written menu book. He wouldn't judge them. He also liked to take a look at it, once in a while. Okay, maybe once a week.

The father stared at the big menu board hung on the wall - pancakes, pancakes, waffles, punch. He found the middle aged man particularly extraordinary, though he couldn't pinpoint why. Something about the father stirred his insides and churned his guts, forcing him to stare at his notepad like a retard so that he didn't need to look at him.

The daughter decided on a set. Finally. He was starting to wonder if choosing just one from the varieties of pancakes would take them hours, forcing him to stay on the spot and letting the other staffs take care of other tables. Which means he wouldn't be able to serve them, all smiles and that, and he wouldn't get as much tips as usual.

"I'll take the blueberry pancake set," she put down the menu and handed it over to her father. The father pushed it back with the tips of his fingers, and smiled at him, "And I'll take the salami pancake with a diet coke."

He jotted down their orders, uneasiness creeping inside him. The menu book lay waiting on the table, but he couldn't seem to reach it and take it. An invisible barrier had formed, and he wondered why.

Oh, don't asky why, a voice chided, its tone angry and disgusted. Once they find out what a queer you are, they'll be disgusted. Look at you, getting leary eyed at the old man!

He wiped the voice from existence, but the words keep repeating inside his head. Queer. Disgusted. Leary eyed.

His fingers snatched the menu book and held it close to his sides. "I'll repeat you orders; one blueberry pancake set, one salami pancake, and one diet coke. Anything else?"

He was sure he was smiling. Was he not? The chattering between his teeth seemed to state the opposite. He needed to go out and get some air. Maybe take a break for a minute or two, until his stomach would stop somersaulting.

The daughter shook her head, and offered him a smile. Strangely enough, the smile kind of cooled down his sudden fever. He bowed in acknowledgement and turned on his heels, ready to leave the table and back to the kitchen.

A tug stopped him cold in his track. "Waiter? These yellow flowers are kind of wilted. Would you mind if I ask for them to be changed?"

The father had stopped him, with his small smile showcased, and the small vase with wilting yellow flowers in it on his hand. He forced himself to reply with a smile, and nodded, "I'll take care of it, sir."

The daughter hissed. "Dad! Let the poor man go!"

He chuckled, unsure of what to do. "It's alright." No, it's not. I'm not. The flowers are. "I'll change it. Please enjoy your lunch."

He took the vase from his hand, and for a moment his hand brushed against the rough, calloused skin of his fingers. He shuddered, disgusted at himself for thinking what a nice hand.

God forbids him for thinking of the same thing ever again.

Now, for real, he left the table, with his notepad and the menu book in one hand and the vase of yellow flowers in the other.