Vitavie's Vignette No. 01: The Waitress

THE WAITRESS

Vitavie's Vignet No. 1

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We see a woman in her forties, half-dressed, a few garments thrown on, evidently straight out of bed. She twirls her hair around the index finger of her left hand.

She is seen sitting on the edge of a chaise longue in her bedroom, placed along the bay window. Upholstered in blue velvet. Bottomless. One bare leg next to her on the seat, the other on the floor.

We see half of her slit peeking out from underneath her slip - delicate pink shining through dark hair. She doesn't care to hide.

When has her sex last seen action? We feel it may have been a while.

She is self-absorbed and alone. Who cares about her appearance? She certainly doesn't. Do we? Rather, there are times when we like a natural, unstudied, un-made-up look.

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Hush...

O, how did ever I get stuck in the life that I lead...? The life I suffer...

Hush! Don't you whine, woman! Suffering you are not! For once, get over the fact that you have passed forty, that you are alone momentarily and in need of attention.

I need a drug.

Coffee! Coffee!

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I love to drink. Ach, nothing excessive, you know... And eleven a.m. is too early to do so, we'd agree, wouldn't we? It really is. I have to be careful and behave. Pull myself together. Yes, pull together.

My gaze surveys my bedroom. I spend a lot of time here. It is a living room. Our bed is unmade. Our bed... But my dear husband has been away for a few days now and it is I alone who made it unmade.

My absent husband should be back tomorrow - or the day after, I don't remember.

Here I sit. I have read the paper, not well, and had breakfast. I sit in my alcove with the last cup of tepid tea. Outside, the garden looks fine, fine and still. The sky is dry but overcast.

I have not left the house for the past day or two, nor seen anyone here. Again. I spend too much time inside. I have many friends, don't get me wrong. None of my friends, however, were interested or able to meet. That is: the minority that don't have careers. (Those that do - I'm one of the ones who don't - well, I couldn't really have seen them?)

I could masturbate. Already did, before I got up. Should I do it again? Can't really be bothered. I'd get a big down after a small high anyway, right now. Don't want that.

I stop ruffling my unkempt pubic hair, just in case. (Note to self: I should better maintain it.)

Of course, I have a dynamite Italian coffee machine at home, but I won't have the coffee alone. I need contact, if only to see warm living bodies.

I therefore resolve to go out. Great! Initiative!

And I will dress for the occasion. Shouldn't look sad and lonesome. A hat, silk blouse, a suit, earrings. Red lips. A lady. The lady that I am. Femme fatale. I want to be noticed.

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I have no specific destination and let the taxi drop me off just some place we happen to pass, near the centre.

'Stop! Driver, stop!'

It seems like a nice little establishment. Old shop front, late 19^th century - two large windows with a door in the middle. Ornate door and window frame, painted bottle green.

I survey the scene and spot a few scattered clients. And a waitress. Then enter. As I do so, I notice the place allows itself a pianist, a nice young student, it seems, boyish haircut, little moustache, who plays French salon music - nostalgic, played with the restrained energy of a tired dance master, as if he's been playing all night long.

The place is intimate. Nice. Glad I got here. I am perking up. The smell of coffee is tangible and just right for me.

I find a place in the far corner.

OK. Settled.

Now coffee!

The waitress... She is coming already.

But, my! That waitress... She is a star.

Old-fashioned look. Full figure, nice face, piercing eyes, good legs. Black bell skirt, white ironed cotton blouse, floppy bow tie, black stockings, booties.

God! Created woman!

I can just about contain myself when I order. 'Yes, yes, a coffee please. Make it strong. Wait! Potent. And sweet.'

How can she refuse? I notice she noticed me. I flatter myself.

Am I flattering myself?

The temperature is rising.

Then I sit alone for some six, seven minutes and wait for my order. Why so long!

Meanwhile the other clients present themselves at the till and she reservedly takes their pay. Only one other person remains, besides us and our friend the pianist - someone that has sat there scribbling all the while with intense concentration. A writer? She could be writing about me, for all I know. She has thrown me one single, but extended and intense glance. Got me down?

My waitress returns with the coffee. And a pastry. 'Courtesy of the house, madam!' And another coffee.

'I will join you, if you don't mind. I feel you won't.'

The cheek! Yet I don't. Mind. Far from it. I keep my cool and smile.

'You are a cheek, young lady. That is all I will say. Now then. Talk to me.'

I will not repeat what she tells me. Only that she compares me to Anna Karenina, had she lived a little longer. Hardly a direct insult, as she died so young. Should I mind that she finds me tragic? As long as she finds me attractive. She is amusing. No need to throw myself in front of a train. Let's postpone that!

Is it she who seduces me or is it the taste of her excellent strong coffee? Coffee as my drug.

The writer remains in her corner and the pianist plays on as my waitress turns the 'Open' sign over to 'Closed.' To 'Open' on our side.

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Her room is directly above the cafe. It is in semi-darkness. On the floor in front of the windows there are thin, bright lines of sunlight where the venetian blinds don't arrest it.

A bed, king-size of course, a few cupboards, a table, a few chairs...

She is a dancer as she undresses with her face towards me. She then lies down on the bed, as if she were an actress in a film, her sex blatantly open - a prominent sex, wow... - her gaze directed at the ceiling. How sweet, how discreet, she who is my junior by at least ten years... more... you understand... But, well, I did not ask for this aversion... I am in shape! I whisper, "Do look..." and undress coquettishly, without shame, shamelessly. Under her attentive gaze.

Our lovemaking is indescribable... She is truly a queen, mighty, but not too great to be tender. And I, a queen myself, yes, I stay her equal. We give and receive both, head-to-head, mouth-to-mouth, tongues swinging, in sixty-nine, tongues and noses lapping, as scissors, alone together... Ach, in countless and unnameable positions. Until all has been passed out and received...

That sweet and slow other-death... I could die. Happily!

(Better not! Could come again.)

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I stretch out luxuriously and buck-naked, truly satisfied and at ease on her bed. Her smell remains, in duet with the aroma of coffee. So does the sound of her music, dance music of faded days.

I feel her juices drying and cool, in my crotch, on my thighs, on my lips.

She has treated me like the queen I am. But not as a servant, but as the young queen she is. The homage is all the greater.

(Rival-queen, fellow-queen...)

This queen dresses in front of the windows. Languidly, without haste, savouring the moment, deeply inhaling the scent of coffee. In duet with that of sex.

She descends the stairs and renters the café. With a nod to the queen, her fellow, she strides through the room and leaves. Her yellow carriage is waiting.

For Suzy

September 2022