Another "X" on Your Calender
My Table
“Get your feet off the table, people have to eat there.” With a groan, Whitman W. Walham removed his feet from the small café’s table. With a glare at the girl attending the counter, Whitman slipped greedily at his coffee drink through the bright green straw protruding from the plastic cup. Staring through his dark glasses at the girl, he watched as she cleaned scrupulously at the spots on the marble counter.
“Do you have a problem?” asked Whitman.
“Excuse me?” she asked, glaring at him.
“Well, you’re cleaning pretty heavily there. OCD? Or are you just a freak?”
“Hey, do me a favor?” asked the girl. “Tell your mom I have her handcuffs and I need my pants back later.” Whitman’s mouth fell open, a smile tugging at his pink lips. She went back to cleaning the counter, hiding her grin.
“I think I’m in love.”
“Don’t get it on my floor,” the girl snapped. Whitman rose from the table, walking disbelievingly towards the girl.
“How do I not know you?” he asked incredulously.
“Because I don’t hang out with losers.”
“I’m not a loser.”
“You’re alone at a café drinking a mocha iced coffee.” She pointed out. Whitman looked down at his drink. “It made me ashamed for you while I was making it.”
“You’re vicious.”
“Thanks.” She replied. “Now go away before you scare the rats in the back with that terrible bed-head.” Whitman left the girl’s side to sit back at the table. He watched her for a moment before putting his feet back on the table with a wicked smirk. “My table!”