Track 4: Sunday or Why Mimi is a Dancer and Not a Waitress

"Cold water!" the woman spit up the tiny amount of liquid she'd braved. "All I asked for was cold water, without ice! Is that really so hard?"

"I'm sorry ma'am," Mimi breathed as an apology. She whisked the water away and sneaked a subtle look at the clock.

It was only six, she still had two more hours on shift. She couldn't help releasing a groan. Gritting her teeth in determination, she went back into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, we don't take deliveries on Sunday," Jed was explaining into the phone.

Great, just what I needed, a reminder that I'm working on a Sunday, Mimi thought darkly.

At least the place was packed, maybe she'd get some decent tips. There was something about brunch that seemed to reel people in.

Jed finally got off the phone, but only to yell at them.

"I needed a table for two yesterday!" he shouted.

As if it were her fault people were slow eaters.

"Go out there and move some people!"

Mimi sighed. The cook put out two plates and rang the obnoxious bell. "Table Seven," he said, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Mimi wished some of the ash would fall on the food, just to spite the customers. "Table Seven's mine," she said to a nearby redheaded waitress. "Not that I know where the hell table seven is. Why the fuck are they named anyway, just say 'the table by the window."

"There's a good reason the tables are numbered honey," Jed said, overhearing the conversation. "You just haven't figured it out yet," he finished, whisking away.

Mimi and the redhead giggled. "Well, I've got two hours to figure it out. Would you stick this in the freezer to me?" she handed her the glass of water that hadn't been up to par.

"Sure," the girl agreed. "And by the way, table seven's the one next to the register."

"Thanks," Mimi said gratefully, picking up the plates and heading out.

She found the table and set the omelettes down on the table. She was turning away when the woman began to speak.

"Excuse me miss-"

Here it comes, Mimi thought. She threw on a smile. "Yes?"

"I distinctly asked for a Western omelette," the woman said, wrinkling her nose with distaste at the food put before her. "This is clearly a Denver omelette."

Maybe you should've eaten at home if you're such an expert. But Mimi didn't say that. In fact, she didn't have time to.

"Where's my cold water?" asked the woman from before, tapping her acrylic nails against the cheap plastic table.

"My poached egg on toast?"

The voices were surrounding Mimi, drowning her in a sea of old people's complaints.

"Shut up!"

She never remembered saying the words, but she remembered hearing them. Unfortunately she didn't stop there.

"I don't know the difference between a Western and Denver omelettes, if there is one. The ice cubes we're NOT using to cool your water is probably shoved up your ass, and who the fuck eats a poached egg on toast?"

Silence.

Mimi whipped off her apron, threw it at table seven and stormed out.

Oh well, she thought, walking down the street. There's always dancing.