"i got a hand, that means i got a fist"

the waitress laid the palm of her hand over my forehead. she looked tersely off to the side focusing on the exact heat of my head.
"You're a little warm... I guess that's good enough."
i had turned down my usual order of a 1/2 litre of wine and immediately she flew into a panic that i was terminally ill.
and if i died, no one would patiently sit through her many smoke breaks while waiting to get served... Nor would a customer be readily available with her favourite brand of cigarettes.

she trucked off to get my order which was non-alcoholic. she shot me a look before she filled up the glass, pinched hope in her face expecting me to back out of it at the last minute. i stared back and she shook her head.

The table was animated and kibbitzed between checking cells and smart phones... between bites of food and licking glass lips before the booze ran down. shifting tired asses on worn out chairs to lean to the side and roll back the strain of staring at a computer screen all day. I pulled a mouthful of ice tea down and sighed. the only one without a phone out i was an alien being of my usual self: Sober and unconnected. Normally it's the reverse, see?

Normally i'm a twitter thinking and hoping and ignoring reality but i felt knocked down... conversations wafted by me as i looked frozen in one look/thought. the special time of the day when i shoo away the dedicated fantasy of what i want and instead stack up the piles of what i got. this should be a time infused with booze but i was saving up for a new expensive distraction and wanted to try and be sensible. i could get drunk when i got home anyway.