The Waitress

In the café, the waitress is prowling, threading between the tables in search finished cups. I suppose that some might consider her pretty, but instead of her high, pointed cheekbones, or round, glossy lips, I focus on the space between her eyes and forehead. Eye shadow, dark red, fades into orange and blue, and it sparkles with a sheen to rival that of the polished floor. It looks as if, while asleep, two black eyes wandered onto her face, and decided that instead of settling in the hollows of her eye sockets, they would prefer to sit just beneath her eyebrows. Upon waking, she must have decided that glitter would do better than concealer. Her hair is sufficiently unobtrusive; brown, it falls in ringlets, and as she walks they sway, like a man from a noose in heavy wind. She reminds me of a painting I once saw, of a tiger stalking a gazelle. They both had the same look in their eyes, a sort of hunger coupled to desperation, and badly-applied paint.