I Wrote This Story Called "The Waiter"

and I really like it so far, but it needs a lot of work. So if anyone likes proof reading...

The Waiter

“I don’t come here often.”
I nodded, twirling my fork in the soupy wreckage otherwise known as tortellini. It really didn’t matter. I knew he was excusing his poor taste in restaurants, but that wasn’t the problem. There was no real problem. Except for me.
He glanced down at his soggy fetuccini alfredo and exhaled a meager sigh. “I’ll drive you home.”
I shook my head and fiddled with my spoon. “No thanks.”
He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a long walk.”
“I don’t mind it.” I really didn’t. I never mind walking.
He gave a resigned shrug. “See you."
“Yeah.” I nodded and looked up into his face. He was one of those people who looked perpetually tired. His brown, practically gray hair was lank and his eyes gave off a faint glimmer, like a light bulb at the end of a long, dank sewer. “See you.”
I heard the bells on the door jingle as he left. I grabbed a few sugar supplement packets and opened the first. Splenda. I poured a small amount into my hand and tentatively sampled the hard white flakes. They were bittersweet, and I had half a mind to spit them out. They spread through my mouth like a virus, and I quickly downed some of my water to rid myself of the taste. I do that everywhere: sample the sugar packets at restaurants to see which one’s best. Not that I ever use them. Real sugar is just fine for me.
The waiter sauntered up to my table. “Mind if I sit? It’s my break.”
I glanced around the room. Plenty of similar velvet booths were empty, and this table happened to have a terrible draft. “I don’t see why not.”
The waiter smiled and sat down across from me and grinned softly. The waiter was definitely Oriental, but his eyes were a hazel green that caught my interest. The waiter wasn’t what you’d call good looking, but he did have a sort of charm that made me want to stare at him all day.
“That your boyfriend?” the waiter asked, gesturing, unperturbed by my staring, to the door.
I shrugged. “I don’t mind him.”
The waiter’s eyes twinkled. I couldn’t look away. “You don’t mind him? How romantic.” The waiter laughed, leaning forward slightly and closing his eyes. It was a nice laugh. You might call it sincere.
“Well, he’s nice, he doesn’t mind me-” I couldn’t think of anything else.
The waiter chuckled. “Am I nice?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I don’t mind you. Does that make me your boyfriend?”
I considered that. “I know almost everything about him.” The waiter’s eyes laughed. “No, really,” I explained, “there’s not much to know. We’ve known each other for a long time.”
The waiter nodded. I could tell he understood. It was just one of those things. “What if you knew everything about Heath Ledger? Would he be your boyfriend?” I marveled at the perfect seriousness, no sarcasm involved.
I gave that one some thought. “He’s dead.”
“That’s a problem?”
“Maybe. No. It depends.”
“Depends?” The waiter’s eyes shone.
“It depends on the person they were when they were alive.”
The waiter nodded. “That makes sense.”
“What’s your name?”
“Haven’t got one.”
I stared at the waiter. “Haven’t got one?”
The waiter pointed to his nametag. It was blank. “Haven’t got one.”
“Sorry.”
“Why?”
I wasn’t sure. “You’re the first person I’ve met without a name.”
The waiter was amused. “Do I seem worse for wear?”
“I guess not.”
The waiter glanced at his small black watch. 11:30 pm. “It’s almost closing time. I can give you a ride home after I finish cleaning up, if you don’t mind waiting.”
I didn’t mind. I never do.
We made love in his room that night. The waiter was surprisingly gentle. The waiter probably knew it was my first time. Still, it wasn’t awkward, like I’d imagined my first time would be. I’d never cared about the whole virginity thing in the first place, but I’d never gotten around to getting rid of it. Afterwards I showered and the waiter gave me a ride home.

… … … …

“You’ve got to understand,” she told me sheepishly, sipping her black coffee and staring intently into my eyes. Another habit she’d picked up from the waiter.
I nodded. I knew how easy it was to get caught up in a person.
“The waiter knew so much,” she continued fondly, letting her hand stroke the handle of her mug, “I could say anything and he’d understand. Anything.” Her eyes cleared for a moment. “I never loved him.” She mused, “but I let myself believe I did. We’re all able to trick ourselves like that, I think.” Another tentative sip. “You know most of the rest.”
I nodded again. I knew that things had gone on like that for months. She would go to the restaurant at 10:30, hang out for an hour, help clean up, go to the waiter’s house, have sex, shower and go home. All very methodical, invariable, and according to her, wonderful. Then it just ended.
“Everyone has to wake up from a dream sometime,” she told me, “and I got to dream for a long time. I guess I was lucky.”

… … … … …
“The waiter wasn’t at the restaurant one day. Just like that. I asked the hostess, who had gotten to know me over the past few months, if the waiter was sick. She didn’t know.
I was scared. I realized how much I depended on him, on the connection we shared. I know it sounds corney, but I was addicted to him. I ran to his house, but I think part of me knew he wouldn’t be there. I couldn’t comprehend it. He just disappeared. Gone. It’s possible he never existed. Not that I’m crazy. It’s just one of those things.”
“The door of the waiter’s house was unlocked, but it didn’t feel like I remembered it. The waiter’s Subaru was gone. I went inside.
“Everything was gone. A bare, cold skeleton of a house was all that was left. I didn’t find any of it unnatural though. It just felt like the way life worked. His bedroom was empty too, not that there had been much in it in the first place. The waiter lived like a monk. I walked to the bathroom as slowly as my feet would let me, running my fingers over the stark walls of his bedroom. I didn’t feel a thing. Maybe it was a dream after all. Maybe I hadn’t woken up.”

… … … … …

“I still don’t think I’ve woken up,” she whispered. “I don’t think I’ll wake up until he comes back.” She pulled a small, white rectangle out of her purse. “This is the waiter’s nametag,” she explained, handing it to me. “You see? Nothing.”
I turned the nametag over in my palm. Terrence. “Yeah,” I said, handing the nametag back to her, “nothing.”
Sometimes people need to keep dreaming.



Good? Bad? Ugly?