Evil Homer
03-13-2007, 09:21 PM
Baby Girl
The chairs were all neatly stacked on the tables, casting low shadows like fingers stretched out on the floor. The cooks had gone; the stoves were cold; only a few busboys remained, finishing up their work until they could go home for a few hours before starting their day jobs. The house manager waited patiently in the corner, dozing off here and there.
The lights were dim by then, (a subtle hint for us to leave) but we didn’t care. The music had long stopped playing, and the room was in perfect silence except for the metronome tapping of our feet. The air was heavy with the dense scents of clam chowder, pumpkin soup, crab cakes, shrimp scampi, lemon butter salmon fillets, grilled chicken breasts, duck a l’orange, lobster tails, fillet mignon, and the special, rack of lamb with a side of mint sauce. Floating on top of that was the smell of coffee, wine, cappuccinos, black forest cake, cheesecake, tiramisu, crepes, and banana flambé. I had waffles and chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce (an off the menu treat I’ve enjoyed since childhood); you had an ice cream sundae. You finished the whole thing, even though you didn’t eat but half your dinner. What did it matter? It was your night.
There was a band too, and we made good use of it. We danced to everything; we danced to slow songs, fast songs, swing, jazz, and salsa. We danced to songs that we didn’t even know how to dance to, so we made up our own moves. Your hair twirled and your dress spun around like a fan. I held your hands as you stood on my feet.
You flashed that big white smile, save one tooth, all night, even when it was covered in whipped cream. It was that mischievous smirk that gave away sneaky crimes; for you, hiding broccoli in the bread basket was the crime of the century. You even smile in your sleep. You would giggle too, like birds in springtime. For no reason, we’d break out in laughter, causing the other, more distinguished clients to look over in mild disgust. We would have our fun anyway. It was our night.
Our night, then and forever. I’d do anything to stay on that dance floor. Tomorrow can come later. Tomorrow, you’ll be grown up. Tomorrow, we won’t dance. Tomorrow, we have to let the world back in. Tomorrow, I will lose you. But that night, you were mine, and I was yours, and we were everything. Not a single other thing existed. That night was eternity.
Sweet dreams.
The chairs were all neatly stacked on the tables, casting low shadows like fingers stretched out on the floor. The cooks had gone; the stoves were cold; only a few busboys remained, finishing up their work until they could go home for a few hours before starting their day jobs. The house manager waited patiently in the corner, dozing off here and there.
The lights were dim by then, (a subtle hint for us to leave) but we didn’t care. The music had long stopped playing, and the room was in perfect silence except for the metronome tapping of our feet. The air was heavy with the dense scents of clam chowder, pumpkin soup, crab cakes, shrimp scampi, lemon butter salmon fillets, grilled chicken breasts, duck a l’orange, lobster tails, fillet mignon, and the special, rack of lamb with a side of mint sauce. Floating on top of that was the smell of coffee, wine, cappuccinos, black forest cake, cheesecake, tiramisu, crepes, and banana flambé. I had waffles and chocolate ice cream with chocolate sauce (an off the menu treat I’ve enjoyed since childhood); you had an ice cream sundae. You finished the whole thing, even though you didn’t eat but half your dinner. What did it matter? It was your night.
There was a band too, and we made good use of it. We danced to everything; we danced to slow songs, fast songs, swing, jazz, and salsa. We danced to songs that we didn’t even know how to dance to, so we made up our own moves. Your hair twirled and your dress spun around like a fan. I held your hands as you stood on my feet.
You flashed that big white smile, save one tooth, all night, even when it was covered in whipped cream. It was that mischievous smirk that gave away sneaky crimes; for you, hiding broccoli in the bread basket was the crime of the century. You even smile in your sleep. You would giggle too, like birds in springtime. For no reason, we’d break out in laughter, causing the other, more distinguished clients to look over in mild disgust. We would have our fun anyway. It was our night.
Our night, then and forever. I’d do anything to stay on that dance floor. Tomorrow can come later. Tomorrow, you’ll be grown up. Tomorrow, we won’t dance. Tomorrow, we have to let the world back in. Tomorrow, I will lose you. But that night, you were mine, and I was yours, and we were everything. Not a single other thing existed. That night was eternity.
Sweet dreams.