Ricardo, the new busboy, watched table eight with trepidation. Who wastes good food and lets it get cold while they talk and talk? Knives and forks, hands and gestures rose and fell but no-one tasted a bite. Maybe the quiet blonde had. Her lipstick appeared smudged. Which one of the three was her date? She must be starving.
One customer flashed jewel-studded fingers.
“You can clear the table now.”
“I’ll get your waiter.”
~ * ~