mimosas | cameron | blitz

gabbana sweets

You sit at the table for too long before the help brings your pitcher. "Is there anything else I can get you, Miss Sweets?"   

A cloying smile spreads across your face and you let your sunglasses fall to the tip of your nose.  "You can get me a more competent server, yeah?" Your smile drops and you lean back, letting your shades slide back into place. "And maybe think about a new hair stylist. Yours is shit." She stands slack-jawed for a beat before nodding and rushing away. You cross your arms.   

At the table next to you, a boy sits in a similar fashion. Big sunglasses cover his face and a well-prepared quiff rests atop his too-pale head. You watch him sip his own mimosa, before starting in on your own. 

 "I have people coming." 

You glance over your glasses at him, and he motions to the empty seats around him. You blink, picking up your glass and halving it in two gulps.

 "I'm not by myself." 

You turn in your seat, realizing he's definitely talking to you. It doesnt take a genius to know he's looking down on you, on the empty seats around yourself, and a crease forms along your forehead. No one looks down on you. There's no one above you to begin with. Especially not this pasty twink. 

 "I'm not either, thank you. I'm gracious enough to come early, so my acquaintances don't suffer in," you lower your shades with your mimosa-free hand, "inadequate seating." You finish your drink and snap, waiting for someone to refill your glass.      

You resign to pouring your own refill, because you grow weary waiting on paid incompetence. At least this way you can withhold gratuity; their tip is your presence at their low-rate establishment. The boy beside you calls over a waiter, and even you notice how long it takes them to come. You tilt your head back, watch as a new one runs up to have a drink shoved in their face, sloshing your own back. The boy requests vodka, and now you want vodka in your mimosa, but he’s far too proud as it is. You won’t give him the pleasure.

“Hard to get good service, am I right?” You smile in agreement. The place is a hell hole, and you would be talking to your dads about getting the whole thing bulldozed for a pop-up boutique. Quickly, though, you drop the corners of your lips and return to funneling the rest of your flute. “I do have friends coming. Don’t worry about me.”

Again with the assurances. You take off your sunglasses entirely, fold them up and set them on the table. He can’t think you are here alone; look at you. Even in your mid-morning casual wear you’re decked in never-worn, fresh fabrics. “I don’t worry.” You turn your chair toward him, pour yourself another glass. “Why would I when I can pay others to worry for me?”