The Waitress

22 the minnesota review Sandra Scofield The Waitress Were the tips good? I ask. She sits with legs out stiff like a dead starling, clamps her mouth to show she doesn't have to say. The words have been lost hauling trays. For tips she smiled and kept her lips red, cocked her hips and scarcely sighed. She lines up her tips in stacks she'll leave for days. "For bread," she says, of nickels at the end. "And milk," the dimes. She puts one quarter in my palm. "For what you will," she sighs freely now. My fist closes. I think of candy in ironed wrappers, chocolate on the tongue. Then I see she's shut her eyes. Her mouth's gone slack to spume. I pull away her thick-soled shoes. In one I lay the coin. It follows me like a madman's eye. ...