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NADINE BOTHA
winter sun

It's diluted. Especially by wide restaurant windows. With absent-minded hands, she wiped the tables. Head up, looking out the window at the cars skiing past the highway. There was a romantic twang in her heart which emotionally associated with that movement. The redundancy of her apron-ed position in that restaurant did not give her the cognitive power to even make stories for those parcels of destiny. There was a ring at the door. Customers. It was eleven in the morning. She took breakfast menus anyway. They were the first customers of the day. A self-involved girlfriend with a crass boyfriend. An elderly father figure ordered a triple whiskey before and during his bacon - crispy, eggs - medium, extra chips, where's the HP? - meal. She served them mechanically. Suggested a coffee. Was flicked away with a gestured cigarette and analysis of the last overtake the doos had performed with their new Fiesta. The guy sat with a straddle attitude, tight jeans loose over the crotch. He had sun-tanned acne eaten skin and flailing light hair. The girl had a tracksuit on. The waitress attended them diligently. They paid. Left change. Didn't tip. She thought about her clitoris. There was nothing else to do.