kayroo3544
She walks, she smiles, she turns, she walks.
They stare her down, critiquing her every move, the outfit that is draped over her body, the way that, as she waltzes down the catwalk, her right foot steps a little too much faster than the left. She does this three times, endures their stares and smirks.
And when she gets home, she cries.
The bubbles settled in the bottom of the glass and I watched them. They twinkled in the dim light. I sat, waiting. A bus boy came to pick up the other set of silverware, and I put out my hand to stop him.
"No, please. Leave it. He'll be here soon."
The bus boy grumbled at me and walked away, and I returned to watching the bubbles.