I was your waitress

I have always liked stories where a character who has played a small role ends up interacting with an important, unrelated character in brief, related, chance ways. In the restaurant where I work, I sometimes feel like that small character meeting so many big characters.

I was there. I was your waitress. I was the quick paced person in the background of your quiet, romantic moments, doing my duties, while you held hands and had conversations in dark-lit corner booths. I was there while you blew out candles on your 50th birthday, grandchildren clapping, cameras flashing. I was there to see you at age ten, a just weaned baby, eating chicken fingers, and asking daddy if  you could order dessert. I have seen many of your precious, bland, forgettable, and unforgettable moments.

I may have met you before, and I am now a stranger. So, I remember your past moments while you were my teacher, neighbor, or friend. In this case, I feel curious and observant as I relearn about you in the present chunk of time. Or maybe we are fresh strangers, two simple characters in this loud, delicious setting that are both here just to fill in lines and pages. Either way, someone watches you, the you that you are on this day.

I am the twinkling boka to your food filled photographs. The restaurant can't run without a waitress, of course, is your side thought as you make reservations and meet your loved ones. A restaurant can't run without a guest, of course, I think as my mind's lens brings your face into sharpness. Clinking plates and flavorful smells rushes everything to the moment, and we both glimpse at each other in gratitude.


Who is the small character, you or I, I wonder as I serve you dinner, and you are served. Busy thoughts cloud my mind, and they make me forget food is not what it's all about. It's people, of course. People doing important things over a plate of pasta.


You get your check, you continue your life elsewhere. You will forget me in an hour's time. Maybe I will remember you.