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The Waitress
Ronda Rich
It happened that we had been to the funeral home to pay respects. For me, this requires an hour of hair, make-up and dressing for a 15-minute appearance and signing of the register. It’s hard when you work at home as we both do, to pull ourselves away from our writing and, most especially, to dress Sunday proper. We climb out of jeans and comfy shirts. I shake my hair out of a ponytail and apply mascara and lip gloss. Please don’t ever ask one of our delivery people how I look on a day-to-day basis. It ain’t purdy. So, it’s a chore to sleek up, gloss over and dress up. We grumble a bit. This is all to explain how we wound up in a diner by the wayside, dressed much nicer than the farmers who wandered in from a hard afternoon’s labor. We twisted uncomfortably in our booth, both feeling conspicuous and overdressed but I, especially, was mindful of the black dress and heels I wore. I looked like I was dressed for a cathedral funeral in a big city, not eating an early supper in a country café.