Luckily, the Slam arrives to save me a couple minutes later, but the damage is already done. Ol’ Chatty Kathy has charted her course, laid her cards on the table, and any other fucking expressions you can come up with. That’s why we’re here. That’s how come all the nice crap in the lobby and holding the door for me and that type of deal the last few months. The bitch wants some sort of sexual shit from me. Jesus, if that isn’t always the way. Worst part is—well, not really worse than the idea of touching this big, sloppy lush but very close—the redhaired gal catches part of the conversation when she comes back with my hash browns. Right as she’s leaning over me—and I mean way in close, her name tag practically catching on my upper lip—the downstairs-from-me chick starts raving about the ins and outs of giving head, about how much she digs it and craves it and all this kind of thing—like how she is so great at it and can’t wait to be doing it again and all that—but this waitress doesn’t understand that it’s only talk so she just looks at me, this maybe twenty-two-year-old cutie does, tosses a big “it’s your loss, buddy” look my way and off she goes. The other route this time, back where I can’t see her. So now that’s dead. No chance, thanks to little Miss Blow Job here, and that’s that. Fuck. Great. That’s really great.