“And can I get you anything else?” he asked, making me stop talking to the rest of the table long enough to look up and acknowledge him for the first time.
Oh, I thought, forgetting the rest of my sentence.
He was my favourite kind of waiter: hipster top-knot and piercings, cheeky, and engaged enough with himself to pass the time by actually being good at his job, because obviously this was just rent money before he got signed/sold his manuscript/got on the plane.
“Yes, actually,” I said, sitting up straighter and holding his gaze, rearranging my parts into their most seductive, flirtatious version. “You can take our photograph, if you don’t mind. And bring a generous portion of mayonnaise. But mainly the photograph.”
“As madam requests,” he replied, tongue firmly in cheek. He winked at me.
He fiddled with my iPhone and we smiled and posed and he assured us he’d taken several snaps so that we could choose the best, and then he was gone and somebody else took over looking after our table. Idly flicking through my phone before the food arrived, though, there were two extra shots before the group images: selfies of himself, tongue stuck out and all, when we weren’t paying attention. It was dumb and cute and made me laugh out loud.
I’m a sucker for a playful attitude.