The redhead notices my distress call and waltzes over to see what all the commotion’s about. It’s not really a commotion or anything; I mean, I’m not doing shit, just sitting there, but this woman I’m with is not just talking and talking and talking but is waving her hands in the air as she goes and moving those fingers of hers in all directions to emphasize every fucking noun and verb. A cigarette sucked straight down to the filter in one ring-filled claw. I glance over at this gal as she arrives, the cute one in the uniform, and even toss her a little half smile, just so she knows I’m sitting here but in no way am I with this loud-mouth whore. Not at all. I think she gets the idea, what with me making sure that she sees I’ve got no ring on my finger and I’m plenty interested in her but my plate is kinda full at the moment. So I order up the Slam, actually go with the All-American this time around, just to mix it up a little, and she nods—name is “Missy”—and walks off the long way, back the other direction so I can grab a quick shot of her ass when she rounds the corner up toward the counter. And no letup from this one across the way; I mean, like, not even a goddamn breath the whole time. My “date” hits about three dozen topics during the quick exchange with the Denny’s gal and shows no sign of slowing. Talks about Medicare and how hard it is to cash a Social Security check without ID and that Safeway has got a sale going on Hungry Man TV dinners and how much she detests meeting guys on the Internet but she’s really, really horny and suddenly I’m thinking the extra food may be a bad idea. Did she just say “horny”? Oh come on, I’m gonna throw up, I swear to Christ, if she gets into the personal stuff. I mean, you know, it’s one thing to go get a bite and chitchat and things of that nature, but I’m gonna just barf right here in her lap if she starts talking about getting laid. I really, really will. And I don’t give a damn who sees me, either.