“It’s complicated,” she said, as she motioned to the waiter.
He shambled over, feet scraping loudly on the tile floor. He was a big man, in a Hawaiian shirt and a white apron. A Mariner’s ball cap was pulled low over his eyes and he barely looked at us.
“May I take your order?”
“Tofu and cheese enchilada for the lady. I’ll take a lunch size of the stir fry chicken fajitas.”
“Tofu and cheese enchilada and a stir fry chicken fajitas,” he repeated. “Anything to drink?”
“Water’s fine for me,” said the Dame.
“I’ll take a sake,” I said.
“Your order will be right out.” He shuffled away. Another paper airplane sailed past, embedding itself into the wall by the bathroom. ‘Help, I am in a box’ was written on the side. I ignored it.
“Well,” I said, tossing a tortilla chip into my mouth, missing, and having to fish it out of my shirt. “What do the Rubber Noses want?”
The Dame frowned. “You shouldn’t call them that. People that call them that have accidents.”
“What do they do? Beat them to death with rubber noses?”
“Actually, yes. Assuming the rubber nose is attached to a crowbar.”
The waiter shuffled over and placed my white bottle of sake down, along with a matching cup. He bowed slightly as he shuffled away.
“Big sake fan?” the Dame asked.
“Can’t stand the stuff,” I said, as I poured some out and stuck my finger in it.
“And what are you doing?”
“Checking the temperature.” I wiped my finger off. “Did you happen to bring a gun?”
“My .38 is actually pointed at you under the table.”
“Good, ‘cause our waiter’s a ninja.”
Next week: Part 3!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Well being a ninja doesn't pay like it used to. Most of them have to moonlight as gardeners, Nintendo executives, and scrappy short ball hitters for the Seattle franchise.
They do make excellent gardners, I will admit that :)
Post a Comment