Want some?: DINING OUT

They take a booth beside mine without waiting for a hostess. My eyes pop, glue on them. Clean white ankle length slax are a little too tight for her bottom. They are topped by a stunning black and white silk print jacket, almost like an open Eton, black dangling beads are attached to the edges, exposing her extra soft, extra large breasts.
Across from her sits a handsome young man, about 6'5" with dark hair, trimmed by an expert who also cared for his two very slim sideburns. I can’t help but notice his handsome black loafers because his legs are too long to be under the table and reach almost to me. He’s not particularly muscular but no ninny either.

I sip my decaf and wait for the special of the day, a cheese omelet with either grits or sliced tomatoes and a bagel for $3.99.’What choice of cheese do I have? I asked my waiter. ‘None-it’s American or nothing.’ Missing his top front tooth, my waiter lisps a little.’What kind of bagel do you want?’ I tell him tomatoes and a pumpernickel bagel. The surprise arrives eventually. The omelet has about four eggs and is filled with a  ton of cheese. That is the good part. It is, however,  my month’s supply of cholesterol. Half of the lightly toasted bagel is burned. The other half is raw.

I was not nasty to my waiter, in fact made a joke of it. ‘Waiter, take a look at these tomatoes. When was the funeral? They look like they died a week ago.’ His only comment was the cook put them on the plate. That did peeve me. ‘You mean the cook cooked my tomato slices? Well that explains why they died.’ He saw no humor in my joke. His attention was on the table next to mine. I couldn’t help but become aware that he stood most of the time behind the boob lady where he must have seen a lot of jostling and moving.

At last my patience is gone and I have to call him over to re-fill my decaf. Ten minutes later it comes. The kitchen is a few steps from my waiter’s table where the urns of coffee live. He goes around two tables behind me so he can come out facing the blond and voluptousness of her front.

Watching his lust, I begin to get my own naughty thoughts. If I were not the prig I am, I’d have a hard choice to make if I wanted the he or she. I give that serious thought and believe I would shell out for both.
This is so unlike me, I embarrass myself. ‘Cut it out, fool,’ I mumble and call for my check. The waiter arrives, pulls it from his pants pocket, lays it on the table in front of the ketchup  and wishes me a good day. My $3.99 special costs me $6.55 that includes coffee and tax. It rolls off my back.  A movie would have cost me $10 and I wouldn’t have had the big omelet or a good look at a pair of prize winning boobs or a man so handsome, he would have won a contest against Robert Taylor, hands down.

Nor would I have had such an exciting, interesting dream about a Roman chariot racing around the Coliseum arena. Ben Hur is Charlton Heston whose chariot wheels are made of sliced tomatoes. One wheel needs oiling and Charlton gets a jar of mustard from under his metal shield and oils the wheel.

I consider my day and my night most fulfilling. I wish you the same for tomorrow.