Big Bad Handsome Man

It took him a second to shake his head and find his table. He sat in the leather booth, rested his long legs on the other seat; he stretched and crossed his ankles. One second he was rubbing his face, and the next, coffee was on the table. She was long gone, and he saw her duck around a corner before he could call her back. He suddenly wondered what her name was. Today, he decided, was when he would find out.

He sipped his coffee slowly, biding his time, altogether unaware of her also doing the same, except while sitting on the toilet in the woman’s bathroom. She wondered why she had to say that, why it came out like that, why he got so angry. She wondered what he story was—why did he use woman? Did he grow up in a broken home or was it a spiteful broken heart?

She wondered briefly why she cared. He was a customer and nothing more, attractive guy or not. She wouldn’t fall for him, even just a crush; she couldn’t. It would only lead to heart break, whether with rejection up front or rejection after a good roll in the hay. He was nice enough to say hello to, and good enough to look at when he was sipping coffee or writing down lyrics for a new song. But he was not someone to be involved in any more than she already was.

She convinced herself of this and even smiled, wondering what brought upon her little meltdown. But, she didn’t have time for that—she was on the clock. She walked back out and almost immediately, Adam called her over. A refill, she could do that, but he didn’t let her take the cup.

“Sit,” he told her.

Obediently, she sat, bewildered. She looked back at him, cowering under the intensity of his gaze.

“I’m using you like I use those girls. You serve a purpose for me, briefly, and then I leave, without saying hello, goodbye, or even a thank you. And I don’t know your name. It’s sad, because I’ve known you the longest. You’ve been my waitress for three years and I don’t know your fucking name. I don’t know a thing about you, in fact. And I want to know now. Tell me, who are you?” he asked, the words rushing and pouring from his mouth in a slur.

She sat for a moment and nodded briefly.

“I’m Rachel, Rachel Weisz, and I’m twenty six years old. I’m a struggling actress that takes college classes and appears in small plays with stars in her eyes and dreams, but probably not her future. I’ve been waitressing here for five years and though it pays my bills, I hope it’s only a stepping stone. I grew up in a rough neighborhood and moved out of it only when I began college. My parents still live in the same house as the one they first moved into together. I have two siblings that live out a state, a lawyer and an accountant. We don’t get along and I’m the only one close to my parents.

“I like shopping, particularly in thrift stores, and I like walking in the park. I rock climb and swim in the river a lot. My favorite food is lasagna and I can cook better than the chef here. I’m addicted to gum and cigarettes. My favorite pair of shoes are break my neck stilettos and I am now babbling,” she said, stopping he rant suddenly.

He laughed and looked at her again with an intensity that made her blush and look away.

“Pleasure to meet you Rachel Weisz,” he said, holding out a hand.

She hesitated, looking at him for a long moment, before fitting her hand in his and giving it a firm shake. Rachel gave him a refill and then his receipt. He paid, giving her a ten dollar tip which was more than triple his charge. He said goodbye and even thanked her before leaving.

When she saw the tip, she glanced out the window but he was already long gone. She almost felt like he was paying for her company and it made her feel dirty—but then she realized who she was and what she was doing again. She shook her head. What was wrong with her these days?