The girl waiting our table in a London cafe was sweet, cute and efficient, but extremely shy. Every time she came by to set down a piece of cutlery or a plate of food, she blushed and apologised with no real reason for either.”Sorry,” she would say putting down a napkin.
“I’m so sorry,” there comes a cup of coffee.
I just wanted to scream: “It’s okay! Honestly! Feeding us is fine, you don’t have to apologise!”
Just we set about demolishing our cake, a young man walked into the relatively empty cafe, and strode moodily to the bar. (In the interests of full disclosure I must say that he was extremely good-looking in an arrogant sort of way.) He showed no interest in ordering, and instead he leaned onto the counter, and stood there, silent and glaring, until our sweet waitress had a spare moment to come and talk to him. When she approached, he spoke to her in Portuguese, his tone harsh, his features frowning. She replied with a blush noticeable even from where we sat, and darted away to serve somebody with their coffee. He frowned, and waited for her to come free again.
This dance continued in front of us. She would spare a minute to talk to the guy, he would glare and growl, she would respond pleadingly, and flit away with a plate of food.
Not understanding any Portuguese, I had to supply my own story.
The moody guy was the girl’s brother. She was supposed to be at home, studying at her local university. She had always wanted to travel and see the world, but her parents said she had to finish her degree first. Then, last Christmas, she announced she was going away with her girlfriends for a few days: a short hop over the border to Spain, that was all.
Except, when the girlfriends returned, she was not with them. Shamefaced, they reported to the girl’s father that she had suspended her course at uni, and has gone travelling. None of them knew where exactly; she had carefully kept her plans to herself.
Not wishing to involve the police, the father hired a private detective, who carefully followed her trail as she travelled around Europe, taking on small jobs to keep cash coming in. Finally, after a few months, he discovered her in London, waiting tables in Soho by day and soaking up metropolitan life at night. The girl’s brother was promptly dispatched to fetch her home without raising a scandal.
And here they were: the guy, watchful and seething, and the girl, stumbling and apologising to customers through her last minutes of freedom. “Don’t try to slip away,” were her brother’s first words to her. “You’re coming home.” He put his hands on his waist, hooking his fingers into his belt, and she knew at once that she wouldn’t dare defy him.
She was going home, to face her father’s wrath.
So it was her brother?! Whilst reading I just assumed it was her boyfriend. They had an argument before she left for work. She’d assumed that the girl he was talking to on the phone was another unknown lover. Quite untrue. He had in fact been on the phone arranging for flowers to be delivered for her birthday at the end of the week and thus was speaking in hushed tones so she didn’t hear. She’d jumped to conclusions and ran out before he could explain properly. By the time she got to work she was starting to think that she had behaved rather poorly, not even giving him a chance to explain, and all her “sorry’s” to you were in fact a reflection of her inner knowledge that she might in fact be very sorry when she got back to the apartment later that day. But he was not willing to wait. Being one of those assertive types he just had to come on down to the restaurant to tell her what a naughty girl she’d been and how she’d be feeling the belt he was currently wearing around his waist, across her bottom the moment her shift was over.
“Sorry”. “Sorry”. “Sorry.” She just happened to be saying it to the wrong person.
wow – that is so like a fantasy i used to have back when i was a teenager…
it was the same basic plot – runaway tracked down by private detective – only instead of working as a waitress, i had been lured into prostitution (complete with *evil* brothel-owner and *evil* clients…but that was a whole other fantasy 😉 ). the private detective would turn up pretending to be a normal client…until the door was shut and we were alone…and then would come the firm grip in my hair, the picture thrust into my hands (an old photo, indistinguishable from the person i had now become) and finally those cold, inescapable words “yes, i know who you are…you’ve caused me a lot of problems, young lady, and now you’re in big trouble”…
I knew my darling wife was thinking pervy thoughts about said waitress – but not quite how pervy! (Great post, my dear).
ROFL Blue Fairy: your comment sooo reminds me of a scene I played with Martha a couple of months ago, which was so dark that we’ve not yet plucked up the courage to post her wonderful write-up on the blog!
Rob: kewl ideas