The drinks tumbled off the tray as though they were in slow motion.
The way the server had bumped a chair with his hip brought him to almost a complete stop, so they didn’t just tip, they somersaulted.
Cheryl waited for the satisfying sound of broken glass and was disappointed when she remembered the bar served all patio drinks in cheap plastic.
The sound was more of a quuuushhhh. Satisfying in its own way, but not what she wanted.
The patio wasn’t very crowded for a sunny spring Saturday.
Cheryl wondered why.
Maybe it was because people knew the place had clumsy servers.
She was watching the waiter clean up the mess, his face the color of a Buckeyes football uniform, when Joyce Appel walked through the open gate and onto the patio.
Cheryl felt like an early sci-fi robot, her eyes zooming in, in rapid succession, on Joyce’s hands, shoes, purse, and then her face.
No new jewelry.
Well, it was a casual bar.
Tennis shoes, worn.
Well, it was spring, and nice out. One could easily wind up in Hines Park.
Brownish canvas shoulder bag with one cheap flower applique.
That thing needs to go regardless.
No obvious botox, lip filler, or rhinoplasty.
Ok, Joyce, you do you. We’ll check back in six months.
“Hey, Cheryl,” Joyce said pleasantly, with this effortless little finger waggling wave that Cheryl never liked.
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