The Waitress
Flash Fiction
Every waitress remembers her first time. Mine was after brunch service at Luciano’s, an Italian bistro on the Upper West Side where I’d been working for a couple weeks. After a boisterous group of tourists had stumbled out the door, Sandro and I began clearing away stacks of plates, silverware and lipstick-stained cloth napkins. As the late afternoon sun reflected off the front windows, I filled a large tray with fifteen or so glasses and hoisted it onto my shoulder. It’s the kind of movement that requires a coordination of strength, balance, and focus.
I must have been distracted. The moment the tray tilted, I tried to adjust, but it was too late. I was a helpless bystander as the glasses crashed to the ground, shattering on contact with the ceramic tiled floor. After the final glass smashed into shards, there was a hushed silence. A wave of embarrassment hit me like a tsunami.
Sandro was the first to clap. Then Petra, the hostess, started to clap. Eventually, the entire wait staff stopped what they were doing and joined in. A customer at the bar hopped off his stool and gave me a standing ovation.
My boss, Lorenzo, walked over and patted me on the back. “Don’t worry, kid. It happens to everyone.”
Sandro swept up the pile of broken glass and told me I had to sweep up for the next person who did it.
