a Little Further Out Past the Diner

the electric nights of revenged blue fire dwindling inside chest cavity. the women all walked by with top unbuddoned lace carved necks, hanging from neon denial their inner selves was available for display. the coffee was strong now and waitress came and went leaving behind subtle hints for me to lounge on. coffee pot walking ball of sunshine working like machine made maid crazy eyed shooting back and forth. refilling cups, darting around corners with plates full of food, small beads of sweat collecting on her forehead as her hair stuck to it. she was dancing a ballet in the diner, a fine dance of crazy animation, i tried to figure out her next moves and she came and went hustling up the aisle. bring him a fork, he wants some ketchup, get someone to clear the next table, those guys are running low on water, we need more coffee, guy bitching about his food, order up at the window, it was like watching a knife edge on a flint, sparks, sparks, sparks, i was waiting fire. 

i was waiting. time was growing, numbing overwhelming sense of desolation. it was not so much a bad thing, the times were great where one did not have to be somewhere at some time with some one to accompany him. the whole damn thing was mine for the taking and i could get up, sit down, be here and there however i wanted without having to report my movements to the upstairs. although at times, late into the night, i would grow cold, and would try to read to get over the thoughts. it came in waves, and i was learning how to determine when it would climb and when it would recede and how i had to make adjustments in order to keep it going. 

she was back now, asking me if i would like some more coffee, i kept typing, i said no, she asked me if i needed anything else, i said no and she had been a sweetheart, then i turned my laptop around and let her read what i was writing. 

pause.

she burst out laughing and walked away. great, now my favorite waitress thinks i'm weird. meh, what can you do? 

it continued on like that for sometime, comfort was not without and overbearing sense of boredom. 

Strike the Mistress and  Cure his Heart.