Nure the Hate: Hate the Restaurant

I went to eat at a restaurant by my workplace today.  You may have noticed me.  I'm the creepy guy that silently watches everyone while trying to look nonchalant.  My game is to look around and project the story of the various patrons in the establishment.  I love this game, and usually do it whenever I am by myself in retaurants or airports.  While it may appear that I am typing a very important and serious email, I am actually typing out shit like this in my notes....

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The enormous guy to my left at the hightop table:  It was the dreaded office holiday lunch.  The office pariah sat at the end of the table, ignored.  His considerable heft strained the wooden legs of the stool.  Despite being 400+ pounds, it was strange how he could be almost invisible.  He sat with the Styrofoam leftovers container in front of him, as if a badge to prove that his gross obesity was a glandular issue or genetic oversight.  He stared at the TV running a replay of an NBA game with which he had little interest.  If he stared in that direction though, he could see the taut well rounded ass of the bartendress.  He would think of that curve later as he masturbated weakly in his non-descript apartment, the empty Styrofoam container on the bed spread. 

The woman at the little round table to my right:  She stared blankly at the menu wanting a cheeseburger but feeling the oppressive weight of guilt if she ordered “the wrong thing”.  She looked to her phone.  No response.  The text message she had sent had been left unanswered for over an hour.  Well, ninety six minutes to be exact.  Did knowing that make her “a psycho”?  Before last weekend he responded to her right away.  Had she been too forward?  Had she seemed desperate?  Would he think she was undesirable in some way?  She cursed herself for the text.  “Want to hang out later?”  What a mistake.  Stupid.  It made her seem like she was too available, too interested.  He should have responded by now.  She knew it had been a mistake to have given him her body like she had on Saturday.  Though she faked most of her excitement, it still felt good to have his warm body in bed next to her.  When she closed her eyes she could almost imagine that he was the man who she wanted him to be.  The waitress came back over.  She was still thinking cheeseburger.  “Are you ready to order?”  Chef salad with vinaigrette on the side.     

The guy way across the dining room:  He always brought a book to work, knowing that if he was left without a dining companion at lunch he would be able to look studious while sitting by himself at a table for two.  He opened his David Foster Wallace book, holding it slightly aloft from the table, spread open conspicuously between his hands to make evident to all he was a well read and serious man.  Secretly he had made little progress on the novel, and frankly found it wordy and difficult to follow.  However, he believed the book to be the literary equivalent of a well cut sport coat or pair of slacks.  In the back of his mind he noted the waitress to his left with the thick black framed glasses.  She was probably thirty.  Maybe a grad student.  Surely she must know who Wallace is, and maybe even had this very book in a stack on a coffee table with scented candles and tasteful knick-knacks from Pier One.  She would come over after spotting his reading the book, and he would remark casually about how much he loved Wallace’s earlier work.  Then with a subtle move of his left hand he would display his wedding band, letting her know that he was “unavailable”.  Her face would betray her disappointment slightly as the conversation would fall away to pleasantries.  What a triumph that would be!  That would be just the sort of thing to carry him through the rest of his day at the firm.  He repositioned the book while sipping his iced tea.  The waitress walked by without a glance carrying a tray of chicken sandwiches and onion rings.