This week’s prompts are at the bottom. The words below are written just for practice. Practice makes perfect.
Sissy crouched and smoked behind the swinging door that separated the back of house from the main dining area. From time to time she would rise and peek out to the front. It was during one of those sneak peeks that she saw the old maroon car with New York plates pull into one of the spots flanking the front door. She didn’t realize it at the time but the car was a 1951 DeSoto Deluxe Club Coupe with a big gleaming chrome grill and white-wall tires with the white wrapping all the way around. The car had an in-line six and three on the tree.
The driver was Morty Wohlberg, and with him was his wife Hannah; they were snowbirds wintering here in Kissimmee for the first time. They’d rented a modest place close to the shore at Ashley Cove.
Sissy watched the elderly couple get out of the car. Morty got out first, came around the long hood of the DeSoto and opened the door for Hannah. They held hands and came in.
Candye, a high school kid working after school as the hostess, was not at her station so Sissy scurried over and greeted the pair. They reminded her of her grandparents.
“Good afternoon, folks. Welcome to The Seafood Station. Only two of you today?”
Hannah nodded her head. Mort surveyed the interior of the place.
“Can we get a seat by the windows?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, sir, those two open tables are reserved. I’ll get you as close as I can.” Sissy answered quickly as she spotted Candye returning from wherever she had been.
It was Mort’s turn to nod his head. He grumbled a bit but didn’t seem too bothered, so Sissy led them to one of her tables.
After they were seated, she handed them each a menu. “Anything to drink?” she queried.
“Hot tea,” Hannah.
“Iced tea,” Morty.
“You want Sweet Tea, Hon?” Sissy asked with a big smile.
“Oh God no,” Mort grimaced.
Returning to the Hostess Station Sissy snagged one of the chalkboards with the day’s specials.
Candye glared, “Fuck you, Sissy. Just fuck you.” She whispered under her breath.
Sissy smiled sweetly, “Right back atcha, sister,” and without breaking stride spun towards the bar and slipped through to get the Wohlberg’s their teas.
- the ancient gallery
- When life and dreams collide
- the busker’s patter