On the tail end of the others watching, a make shift of eyes glance and hit the target of the Portuguese burger.
Over the wait, the collared attire parts covertly to hand and unveil the captured essence of 23 flavours in the guise of a stomach-warm Dr Pepper.
Slightly zesty from the mild nature of the spices and herbs in the chicken meat, the burger is down and out minutes later. A slower take on the action with help on the chips and sticks of crumbs dipping into sauces snatched from the hands of the clearing waitress.
Doohickey of panel work riding the wrists to take orders only to screen in the same second with pen and paper. Two trips to the memory, no cause for concern other than the repetition of requests for the woman who bears the name badge.
Details and the drumming of the day before the weekend onslaught and the night swings in a fell swoop with the softening lights of the open air setting of the restaurant. Cool breeze happens to take the edge off having to work the body on non stop call.
Calling out the nature of the willow, a leather bind and the fold of notes from grapes, lobsters and pineapples, the rip curl hand me down presents itself as the apex of dilberations and consternation.
Where fashion forces itself to look at falling in line and to step outside for the sake of comfort is utterly reprehensible and a slight. One chain to bind them all, one chain to rule them notes, one chain to hold a displacement that never happens to the more eagle of eyes between the pages of the folder.
Down to eleven Dr Peppers.
Saturday, 24 February 2007
Distributed amongst the proletariat