What Is It That You Want?

Seriously, make up your mind.  How long have we been at this restaurant?  It took too long to get here, endless walking, doubling back, second-guessing.  You may have been here before but fuck if you knew where to find it today.  Heavy oak doors behind a velvet curtain—a bit ostentatious for a restaurant called Brunch.  The menu is an albatross of heft and wingspan.  You can barely turn the pages.  Try not to notice the threat in the waitress’ thickly-drawn eyebrow, her thin tapping bullet-pen. The print begins to blur and shimmy, filmy scarves flutter in your peripheral vision.  The waitress clears her throat.  She’ll give you another minute. There are other customers waiting.  Maybe they won’t be chronic indecisives.  Your table is littered with plates, the remnants of appetizers— shrimp tails, sweaty cheese, bread crusts.  Ice melting in glasses.  Christ, how long have we been here? How did you not get any?  A woman stumbles into you, offers her menu like her first-born, brown eyes wild for guidance.  What is good?  Just tell me what to decide.  A vague inkling of lemon, ramps.  Maybe artichoke.  Something about duck?  Your boyfriend appears, coldly hands you a note when you reach for him.  Already ate.  I’m bored.  Are you done?  You hadn’t realized he had gone.  Or that he’d even been here when you came into this place hours ago.  Just pick already – how bad could it be?   Here comes the waitress again, and she needs an answer.  Time to commit.  You’re ready to order. You’re not even hungry.  You’re starving to death.