|The Waitress submitted 2011.02.01 06:19 AM by Willis viewed 2015 times|
|She ordered food cooked for the tables and always smiled while doing it. Then she would spin on one foot like some ballerina, becoming a whirl of soiled apron in the waitress station, and the cooks would wonder over the dance's purpose.|
Sometimes, in the breakroom, she would mention having recently been in a house fire. If asked, she would pull up a pant leg, or roll up a sleeve and show the scars.
She was in a house fire she would say, but everyone knew better. And what they knew made her the subject of whispered jokes around the restaurant.
Word was that several months ago, alone in her bedroom, she sprayed lighter fluid across her mattress, her sheets, her pillows and comforters. She then crawled into the middle of it all and lit herself on fire.
She had attempted to burn herself to death but had found a reason halfway through.
After coming home from the hospital she found a job at a small Italian restaurant. She hustled food platters around a dining room, ran drink refills back and forth, sometimes worth it, sometimes not. And her deeply rouged lips would always part into a smile every time she placed an order for the kitchen. She did it all peacefully, even though they knew.
And she always spun for them like some ballerina, spun for them all, defiantly, for within that determined dance lay a reason.
A powerful reason.
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