Mustering her dignity, she says to the amused maître d’ – “I don’t usually produce crackers from my person”.
They regard the salty rectangle on the tastefully tiled floor, recently evacuated from her folded coat.
He runs appreciative eyes over her. “I’m just waiting to see if there will be cheese.”
Jordana Connor is a long-time scribbler and fledgling submitter of short stories and flash fiction. She enjoys excruciatingly bad puns, delicious swear words, and the Oxford comma. She lives in Brisbane.
Our waitress, Carlie, promised to “take care of” us. She sliced and served the pizza. With a flourish, she slid the pizza on to my plate. It continued to slide right on to my white slacks, sauce side down.
The manager arrived with club soda, an apology and the check.
Marian Brooks has recently retired and found some time to write short fiction. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband.
My date was muttering to herself again.
“Something on your mind?” I asked.
She looked up bashfully. “It’s just… They’re overcharging pretty severely for these meals. Based on the ingredient prices, anyways.”
“Think you could take off your Grocery Cashier apron for tonight?”
She sighed. “Sorry. This is my curse…”
This story was based on a title suggested by @Lost_inthe_Void.
“I won’t recommend seafood dishes anymore,” the waiter explains. “It has landed me in hot water too many times before.”
“Oh?” I say. “Do people really get upset with you when they don’t like your suggestions?”
“I mean literal hot water,” he says sardonically, clicking his lobster claws.
This story was based on the prompt “won’t recommend” at TypeTrigger.
“What’s on the menu today?”
“Appendix removal with side salad is on special, and Doctor Jones is whipping up his homemade double bypass.”
“Sounds wonderful, but I’m on a budget today. I’ll take a half-order of hip replacement, please.”
“Certainly. Don’t forget to tip your orderly!”
This story is based on a title suggested by @Invariel.
People were lined up, waiting for a table, standing too close to her chair. She was almost touching the butt of a heavy-set, bleached blond, overweight woman who was describing her “last” trip to Paris in excruciating detail.
She quickly downed her glass of red wine, stood up, and left.
Bobbi Lurie is the author of three poetry collections: The Book I Never Read, Letter from the Lawn and Grief Suite.
“How long do you think it’s been since the waitress last stopped by our table?”
“I dunno. Twelve minutes?”
“Wrong. Try nineteen.”
“Wow, really? Nineteen minutes?”
“Nope. Try thirty-seven.”
“It definitely hasn’t been thirty-seven minutes.”
“True. You don’t have to keep guessing the numbers I’m suggesting.”
“…I hate this game.”
“You know what I don’t understand? People who go to restaurants alone.”
“I go to restaurants alone.”
“I know. And I don’t understand you.”
“But you love me anyways, right?”
“Love is such a strong word…”
“Well I was going to tip you well tonight, but now…”
The waitress laughed.