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The Waitress

By The Rackster

“Can I have a latte please?”

“How would you like it sir?”

“Good question. Note this down carefully okay?”

“Okay.”

“No espresso, no milk and no foam.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes. You heard me.”

“But sir, that’s just hot water.”

“Sure, if you want to be so unimaginative.”

“Okay. What else sir? A cake maybe to go with your latte, no espresso, no milk and no foam?”

“Yes, a black forest.”

“Okay sir. A slice?”

“Yes. But, with no eggs, no chocolate and no cream.”

“But sir?”

“Yes?”

“That’s just the plate.”

“Sure, if you want to be so unimaginative.”

She walks away from the table. Her reddish brown apron almost the same length as her skirt. She has very brown legs. That look good from behind. Rarely do legs look good from behind. Some look like golf clubs. Other’s look like fat golf clubs. They disappear into her skirt and join her ass. Stretching out the seams. There’s no panty line to see. So maybe she doesn’t wear any or she wears the devil’s thread. She sashays out of sight. Into a corner. My mind follows her there and imagines the kind of conversation she is having. With the manager maybe. A guy of average build with a white pressed shirt. Starched collar. And a gold name tag. It would be a talk. A talk about the guy that wants hot water and an empty side plate.

In my idea of the conversation these two would have the hots for each other. Hots? Is that a thing? Anyway. You know? Office romance. Dates at a different branch with their employee discounts. Exchange of flirty eyes. Subtle butt pinches. Raunchy text messages. Obvious giggles. The wife he won’t leave. The wife she knows he won’t leave. The frequent rendezvous at back street lodgings to quench pent up passions in hot steamy, butt sweating, god’s name calling, back arching, guilt tripping, finger licking chicken, and Nakumatt slogan type of sex. They would start talking about the guy. Then the manager would complement her lips. Say they looked hot. Then she’d lower her eyes. Brush her fingers against his forearm. Then he’d grab her waist. Or a little lower. Pull her close. Such that the minty-ness in his breath would make her face tingle. Then they’d delve into each other’s lips. Hungrily. And briefly. Lest someone walked in on them. And then she’d walk back. Straightening the hem of the skirt. Looking apologetic and distant. Walking carefully. Afraid her juices will trickle down her thighs. And calmly tell me they can’t serve me. As she scurries over with a tray of fresh buns, steaming coffee and a side of chic. See what I did?

Out of my reverie I stirred as she walked back to my table. A tray in hand. Steaming mug an empty side plate. She did not tug at the hem of her skirt. She did not look apologetic. As a matter of fact the manager was a lady. Makes the whole thing hotter; but she’s straight. Like her hair. Or weave. Or the road to hell.

“Here you go sir.” She said with a smile.

Something about the way she said sir. That took my ego out for dinner. Not just any dinner but home cooked dinner served hot. On its favorite plate. While its favorite show is on. And it makes it want to say ‘babe I love you’. But it doesn’t because even my ego has an ego.

***

Her name was Claire. I know because I asked. And this is not sijui one of those romance stories. Ati happily ever after. Sijui ati two kids, house and a car. This story ends with me or her dead. Sit tight.

For the sake of this story you can call me Michael. Mike if you want. But not Mikey. Or Miko. The latter two sound like some hoodlum swindling people off their hard earned money at some city street using old PK wrappers and an old drinking chocolate tin. When Claire and I met it was one of those days of the month. When the bank account is kidogo moody. You’ve bled it dry. Swiped your card so many times you swear it might have an STI. Who knows where those machines have been? And what kind of cards they swipe? Some have questionable characteristics. They just start beeping for no reason. And some like to have their buttons pushed, hard. And some take too long to respond. You just stay their waiting. Like your life depended on it. And then once your money has been deducted they pull out. I mean what’s the point? Si they just let it stay there inside. Enjoy the warmth kidogo.

She found it funny that I ordered for water. It’s not like people don’t order water in that restaurant. We can just say she liked me. Her and her good looking legs. I’m not exaggerating when I say this but her legs looked like they looked at themselves in the mirror. They’d be walking in town talking about whatever legs talk about. The weather maybe. And they’d pass one of those buildings that have mirrors for windows. And they’d stop. They’d literally stop and stare. And they’d take a selfie. Post it on instagram. And they’d see lunje ule mkali’s post tagged calves on fleek. Then they’d hi-five. And laugh. Calves? That’s a whole cow. One would say. Now that’s when you know your legs are the shit. They make fun of other legs.

Our first date and only date she wore blue denim jeans. Hugged that derrière like it had gone to war and come back after six months. Again no panty line. Some pair of black heels with red soles. And a crop top. She was heavy but toned. Her tummy did not have layers that made you cry like an onion. It was just one brown toned tummy. And a cute belly button. It looked like a chubby kids dimple. You wanted to pinch it and ask it its name. Then she had these mounds of soft flesh adorning her chest. A slender gold crucifix comfortably resting in between them. Jesus at Gethsemane. We were walking down the street. Hand in hand. You don’t let a lady like that walk like that. People might think she’s available.  And she had a playful spring in her step. A playfulness that came out in her voice when she spoke. A playfulness that came out in everything about her.

We went to some restaurant famous for its grilled chicken. And cocktails. To be famous for grilled chicken your chicken just can’t be kawaida. It needs to be special. A little bit retarded. Born and raised in a backyard in Karen. Just something. Virgin even. Choir leader. Designer feathers. So I ordered the chicken. With some fries. And some mushroom sauce. And a milkshake. But you know girls. She asked for some salad. That came with sijui dressing. Like it was wounded. And it had just come from the doctor. And a water. Sparkling.

The date went well. She laughed at all my jokes. I pretended to laugh at all her jokes. She was not funny at all. She could not crack a joke to save her life even if it was an egg and she needed an omelet. But she was cute. And had an ass. And legs. So it worked. Lunch soon turned into evening coffee. And dusk just sprung up on us like a bad surprise. Like the side chic calling to say she’s pregnant on a Sunday morning. So we walk out and she’s clinging to my arm. Saying lovey dovey things. Stroking my arm. My ego more. Then she suggested we go for drinks. But it didn’t look like a random suggestion. This she had marinated in her head. Like some piece of special chicken. And finally brought it up. Like it was a by the way.

“It’s too early to go home.”

“What do you mean? It’s already dark out.”

“I mean it’s just too early.”

“Okay so what then?”

“I don’t know. Drinks maybe?”

Just like that we found ourselves at some joint near nation center. The only thing more aggressive than the music was her dancing. And her lips. And she had only had half a double. The sly girl. Crushed between the couch and her bosom I could hardly breathe. Her warm breath infused with the oaky scent of aged whisky sent ripples down my spine. Yes, and she drank whisky. Neat over ice. Or maybe she was following my lead. In between breaths she suggested we go home. Her home. It was closest she said. And she couldn’t wait. She didn’t want to wait.

A cab later and we were pushing into her sitting room almost falling over the shoes by the door. I took her top off and she took my shirt off. Or I took my shirt off and she took her top off. A midst hot breaths and roaming hands she said something about love. Admittedly, that was a red flag. We stumble inside her bedroom. No time to look at décor. We just land on the soft bed in a huff. Kissing. Hmmming. Aaaahing. Then she loosens the belt to her jeans. Undoes the button. Let’s me pull it off. The scent of her womanhood hits me gently like a pillow fight with a lover. It almost engulfs the whole room like an envelope of silky sin. She then grabs my face and stares me right to my appendix.

“I love you” she mumbles

“I love you too.” I say. Hurriedly. Like it’s an obstacle I want out of the way.

“Really?”

“Yes. Of course. Really.”

“Prove it.”

“What?” Now my blood slows down. I’m starting to think. What could she mean by prove it? Does she want me to take her there and then? Should I go on my knees and eat the muffin. Should I make her turn and delve into her nether like groceries?

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“Let’s make a kid.”

“What!”

“You love me right?”

“No. I mean. Yes. No, I mean no. I don’t love you like that.”

“Please. It’ll have your eyes.”

“Yes, and my DNA.”

“But you said you loved me. Right?”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I just did.”

“But I love you. At least do it for me.”

“I just can’t”

“And why are you dressing up? You’re going to say no to this?”

“Yes. I mean no. I mean I’m saying no to you and a kid.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye.”

“Please tell me when you get home.” She shouted after me as I left.

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