“mashed potato, you can do the twist!” and she doesn’t twist but she shakes her hips as she punches the register. i smile. my eyes land on a butterfly perched on the back of her neck. she turns and looks at me, smiles back. “ready to order?”
“i think so,” i say, “could i get a club sandwich?”
she repeats it back to me, “and on what bread?”
“whaddya got?”
“rye, wheat, white, sourdough…”
“oh, sourdough please,” i say excitedly.
she chuckles. “and to drink?”
“a water please…and a coke?”
“a water and a coke, coming up!”
she stuffs her pad in her back pocket and turns, shuffles backwards, stepping like a dancer, swinging her hips, waving that apron as over the radio comes “work, work,” and she continues to defy the lyrics.