Pansy


It's early Monday morning, and to start the week off right I decide to visit the local diner, which has just reopened for the fifth time in the past three years. I shuffle in, head down, find a booth, which isn't too hard because I'm the only customer. A few seconds after I sit down, the booth is cast in dark shadow.

"My name is Pansy and I'll be your waitress."

I look up into the cold steel eyes of a woman who stands six-six in sensible shoes. I'm not brave enough to guess her weight. Her shoulders are wider than Michael Strahan's.* Her voice has the mellow tones of a grizzly purring at its soon-to-be-dinner.

"Coffee?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"Real or decaf?" She says decaf with a sneer, daring me to cross her.

"Real."

"Be ready to order when I come back."

It's going to be a long week.

* = NY Giants defensive end.