She asks if I am ready to order. At first, I mistake the partial paralysis of her mouth as annoyance or disdain. I have no explanation why, but I assume it was a stroke that paralyzed the right side of her face.
As the thunderstorm outside grows in its fierceness, the shelter seaking motorists seated around me grow equally impatient for their food. The young waitress apologizes profusely, rushing about refilling their beverages, promising that it won’t be much longer. I can see a steady stream of people lining up at the front desk to check into the hotel, and I can see a steady stream of people lining up to be seated for dining. Caffeine is making my legs shake uncontrollably, I order a glass of the house red hoping it will help calm me down. I make short talk with the busboy as he hurridley clears and set places at the surrounding tables. I want to disassociate myself from the rest of the clientele, as I am in no hurry and do not want spit in my food.
Once served I eat my meal while listening to other people’s table conversations. My wine glass stained with lipstick that isn’t my color. The penmanship on the check I am eventually handed is impeccable. I don’t remember when but I have been to this hotel before.