Prompts courtesy of Cake.shortandsweet‘s Wednesday Write In.
The five women sat at around a table at the back of the bar, cackling like a coven. The waiter rolled his eyes as they called him over for another round of daiquiris. Their whispered conversation evaporated as he approached. He felt like a biplane flying over the Bermuda triangle.
“Another round, ladies?” he asked.
Four of the brood turned to their leader who tried to screw her eyes on straight long enough to answer. Her fingers, chipped and chewed nails, knotty joints, purple veins crisscrossing the back of her hand like mountain ranges, stroked the side of her breast.
She thought she came off as playful. She might have pulled it off, forty years ago, but now, all the waiter wanted to do was run.
They cooed and cawed, clawed at his thighs, his arms, prattled on about topics he didn’t bother listening to, and finally ordered. The waiter stalked off to the bar picked up the waiting glasses. He walked back and set the long-stemmed drinks in front of them. He saw the stack of twenties under the matriarch’s palm.
His eyes traveled up the thin-skinned arm, past the loose flower blouse, over the loose skin of her neck and discovered a cocked eyebrow over a suggestive glance.
The waiter knew what she wanted. He nodded.
When the group of women left a few hours later, he was already waiting beside their car.