It was towards the end of my eleventh straight double, and my feet were throbbing like a drag queen’s in stilettos two sizes too small.
The campers in the corner banquette showed no signs of leaving. The businessman was leaning back against the bench, his date sidled up next to him, adjusting the napkin-covered tent he was pitching.
The things customers think we can’t see. PDAs are fine, but if you’re in a 4-star hotel’s restaurant, can’t you go back upstairs for your hand job?
While setting up tables for tomorrow’s breakfast, I heard a small crash, a giggle from her and an “Oh, fuck,” from him. Turning around, I saw her wine glass was turned over, and her ever-unwrapping VonFurstenburg wrap dress was splattered with Malbec.
With index finger raised, he beckoned me.
He. Snapped. His. Fingers.
They’d spilled red and I was seeing it.
“We’ve had a dining mishap,” he said. “Bring some soda water.”
“You know, white wine gets out red,” I said, handing them fresh napkins. “Do you like the Slag’s Lap?”
“Beg your pardon?” His Viagra-flushed cheeks began to turn crimson.
“The Stag’s Leap Chardornay. It’s delightful.”
I got my rosé slip the next morning.