I can’t stand the rain against my window—or my umbrella, or the hood of my car, or my Chattahoochee patio, or the roof of that restaurant that we go to sometimes, the steakhouse where that one waitress is always looking at my man, especially when she comes over and says “Can I take your order?” and puts a little sauce on her tone so it’s entirely clear what she means, but also entirely clear that she knows she has plausible deniability, because what else is she supposed to say other than “Can I take your order?”? That waitress—her name is Devorah—burns me up to the point where I wrap the napkin around both hands and pull until the circulation is almost cut off, and that’s just to prevent me from reaching for the cutlery and showing her how to stay away from another woman’s man, and while I’m exaggerating, I’m only exaggerating a little, and last month after she lingered at the table a bit too long while bringing out desserts, I keyed her pickup as we left, passenger side, rear wheel, so she’s not likely to spot it for a while, and that night I dreamed that her truck was her and the key was a steak knife, long dream, really lasted, no flinching on my part. And even Devorah bothers me less than the rain.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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