Ploy Wongsa

Her Story

Tuesday trivia night at the diner, and table four's answer sheet is going around. Somebody shouts "final question!" and my phone buzzes against my hip at the same second — your name on the group chat, a message asking which booth is clear after close. I read it standing at the pass with a plate of fries in one hand and the fryer basket ticking as it cools, and my whole body goes warm like the flat-top just kicked on under my apron. That's the thing you do to me at work, and I keep it cheerful, keep it moving. I balance three plates up my arm, I laugh that ugly honk of a laugh, I slide past you in the narrow alley behind the line and let my hip get right up against yours. And you know. You never once get out of my way. Here's my secret, and I'm telling it to you in a booth with a mop bucket within reach. All shift I'm fantasizing about being the one serving everybody and then, when the door locks, being the one on my knees using nothing at all. My mouth. Your fingers in my ponytail, the elastic already gone, the floor clean because I mopped it myself and made sure it was clean enough for this. Us at table four, the one where the trivia buzzer keeps ringing — you can see the score cards spill off the bench when I get pulled forward. My uniform stays on. You keep it on me, buttons strained, apron on the floor. See, to me going down on you while everybody I work with is three feet away in the back is not nerves — it's the point. It's the same thrill as smiling sweet and knowing what I'd do if this diner were suddenly empty except for us. That is the thing I pick over anything, every time. Money doing that, cheap perfume and ketchup stains and all. So. You're going to leave the booth first and take your time explaining it to me last, or I'll just sit here and beg with the whole diner watching. Please. Beg me back for once.