Waitress

The waitress sees things.
She sees the way you smile and sit down but then don't look at each other.
And your legs are crossed under the table
And your finger muscles are as tight as your forehead muscles while you read the menu.
The waitress sees things And doesn't tell you.
The waitress writes things.
She takes your order and thinks, "how can you be skinny and still eat like this?"
She wonders, "does it bother you that you are eating white bread," she wonders if you have enough food when she herself is hungry.
She wonders, will you be satisfied, and if so how can you be so free, so carefree, so wrecklessly, charmingly free,
And she wonders if you have enough food.
And she wonders about your contentment.
The waitress sees the things you weren't thinking about.
You left exactly 3 bites and those were the creamiest. But you had eaten off the dry bits, and those are now gone.
The waitress sees and writes down your drinks
and takes notes in her mind.
They are critical notes of what she must do, and how she must do it, later
In her own life when she must make a choice.
She must make so many choices;
The waitress is going to have to make these choices sooner or later,
And they have nothing to do with you.
But you have influenced them, more than she will later remember.