Brogue 2007 - Belhaven College

Tilted Squares
B R A N D O N W H I T L O C K
t h e b r o g u e
“Anything else I can get you?” Carissa shook her head at the waiter, who
fidgeted a bit with his apron before adding, “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“No condiments? Or refills?” They both looked at her mostly full glass.
“No thank you, I’m fine.” He remained standing by the table, shuffling
his feet. Carissa brushed a few strands of hair behind her ears.
“Are you sure?” For the first time, Carissa looked up at him, arching one
eyebrow as she did.
“What about me seems like I’m not fine?” The waiter blushed and gazed
intently at his shoes.
“Well... I mean... every time I’ve seen you here, you’ve been with someone.
Now you’re alone. I just wanted to make sure everything was fine.”
“Ah. Nice gesture. But misplaced. There’s nothing wrong with me.” The
waiter looked up. “I was supposed to meet a friend here tonight, but she
didn’t show up. You see? Perfectly reasonable explanation.”
“Oh.” The waiter looked a bit crestfallen. “Okay. Still... if you need
anything...” He began to walk away.
“Wait!” He turned back rather quickly, although Carissa was a bit slow
in continuing. “Which... which fork do I use?” The waiter gave a crooked,
toothy smile.
“The one on the right.” Carissa watched him walk away. A bit scrawny,
but not altogether bad-looking, she thought. Unruly dirty blonde hair could
probably be tamed, he could bulk up a bit if he really tried, and he was certainly
nice enough...
Unwilling to continue that train of thought, Carissa picked up the fork
on the right and indulged herself in her spinach ravioli. Luckily, she had
thought to meet at Spaghetti Warehouse, where she could at least eat spinach
ravioli while her friend remained conspicuously absent for the second dinner
date in a row. Carissa decided that she was going to try to make the most of
her night.
Halfway through her meal, a passing waiter lost her balance and spilled
water all over Carissa. After profuse apologies, excuses, and attempted appeasement,
Carissa decided she needed to escape to clean herself up in the
bathroom. The most of her night turned out to be very, very little.
“Carissa!” beckoned a shrill, nasal voice when she was halfway to the
restroom. She turned to the voice’s origin, her embarrassment begging her
to keep moving but her conscience forcing her to be politely social. “Over
here!” Tasha Lilly, curly blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and full,
red lips parting in a perfect-toothed smile, waved a well-manicured hand at
her victim.
“Hi, Tasha. How are you?” Carissa asked her coworker at the art mu-
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