All stories
The Waitress
The waitress in the old diner, who lets you see a little more of herself after the shift.
Silke stands between the empty tables, as if she had just come off her shift. The checkered shirt is knotted under her breasts, nothing underneath anymore. Her freckles reach from her shoulders to her décolleté, and the black garters sit taut on her thighs. Outside the large windows it is already getting dusk, inside the light remains cool and even. She waits, without moving, for the first sound of the shutter.
Red vinyl benches, marble tables and black-and-white tiled floor. Soft overhead light and cool window light meet her figure. The room smells of old coffee and cleaning agent.
The Waitress
Silke has worked four years at this small highway diner in Dalby. Mornings she serves coffee to the regulars, evenings she clears the tables, and sometimes she stays afterward when someone wants photos. She lives two streets away in a small apartment above the post office and drives the old Honda when called in. The diner is old, the red vinyl upholstery already cracked, and that is exactly where she feels at home.
