April Foolishness: In Bed

The fortune reads: “Whistle while you work.”

“They say you should always add ‘in bed’ to the end of your fortunes,” the waitress comments, reading over his shoulder.

“Is that an invitation?”

“Only if you want it to be,” she says, pouring him another glass of sake.

“And if I said I did?”

“My shift ends at 11,” she says with a wink.

He smiles. She moves on to attend to another table. He checks his phone. 10:35.

He drinks the sake. He ponders the waitress’s shapely form. Despite the padded geisha getup, he knows every curve. They’ve played this game before, many times.

He still doesn’t know her name. Or wouldn’t, if he were an average dim sum restaurant customer.

She talks in her sleep. He slips out before morning, to avoid complications.

He likes it when she leaves her geta on. She likes that he doesn’t ask her to put chopsticks in her hair, that he never discusses the tightness or tininess of her body.

She wishes he wouldn’t slip out in the night. Just once, she’d like to make him breakfast. Or have him buy her one. Even a croissant and a café au lait would do.

They catch one another’s gaze across the emptying room. They smile. They each picture the other in a compromising position. And they blow each other kisses, childlike in their lust.

“Tonight’s the night,” she whispers to herself.

He drains his glass of sake. 10:50. He pays his bill, writes her a note. “Fantastic service. See you soon?”

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