The young waitress smiled as she approached the booth. “Would you like a menu?”
“Yes, I would,” said the old gent. He took the menu, slipped it under the left side of his jacket.
Her forehead wrinkled. “What are you doing?”
“You just gave me a menu.”
“No — like, I meant to read.”
“I read it once. I didn’t like it.” He placed the menu back on the table.
“I’ll give you a minute.” She leaned over the table and reached for the napkin holder. “Excuse me.”
“What’d ya do? What’d ya do?” He scooted toward the wall.
The waitress straightened, turned as red as a Mexican sunset, looked around and mumbled, “I didn’t do anything.”
She brushed back a loose strand of hair, regained her composure and said with a snippy tone, “Would you like to order now?”
The old guy leaned forward, squinted at the menu. “I’ll have ham and eggs.”
She slouched on one hip, scribbled on the order pad. “How do you like your eggs?”
“I like them very much.”
The waitress frowned. “No — how do you like them cooked?”
“I like them that way.”
“I’ll make them over easy.”
“I’d rather you asked the cook to do it.”
The waitress delivered the food, then walked back and watched him from behind the counter. When he finished his breakfast and stood to leave, she rushed over. “Mister — you forgot something.”
He looked down at the two ten-dollar bills and winked. “Welcome, young lady. I own this place.”
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