Out of the Storm. M. Saverio Clemente

speak. It promised to be a good night.

      “How are the kids, Mindy?” asked the man at the table next to him.

      Thomas recognized the man. He too took his Saturday night dinners at The Ragged Urchin. And he always made a point of asking the waitress—the middle-aged mother of four with a fat belly and a prosthetic leg—about her kids. He always had a story of his own and a smile on his face. He was a real prick.

      “They grow up so fast,” said the one-legged waitress. She let out a reminiscent sigh.

      “Faster than last week?” the man said with a smile.

      “Faster by the day!” she exclaimed.

      Thomas glared at the two of them with resentment. He knew that she’d soon hobble her way back to the kitchen only to emerge a short while later with an extra pickle. Thomas didn’t like pickles. But knowing that that prick was going to get an extra one—that rubbed him the wrong way. He stopped listening to their conversation and instead mused on how happy it would make him to break the man’s jaw.

      Happy enough, he concluded.

      Then, as the one-legged waitress limped away, he watched her limp and imagined what it would be like to be with her. Thomas was not attracted to her. Not in the least. Still, he imagined being with her. He imagined her breathing heavy and kissing him softly. He imagined him breathing heavy and kissing her with a passion, an excitement he hadn’t felt in years. He imagined just how he would undress her—sliding his right hand up the back of her shirt and undoing her bra, then pulling shirt and bra off with one fluid motion. He imagined how she would undress him—unbuttoning his shirt one button at a time and sliding it over his broad shoulders. He imagined her on her back and him pressing his hard belly—hardened by the years and by the scotch—down upon her. He imagined her chin in his mouth and his hand on her thigh—the good one. He imagined her moaning ever so softly and he imagined himself grunting then laughing at himself for grunting. He imagined the two of them laughing at his grunting and then her kissing his forehead and each one of his eyelids and his nose and his mouth. He imagined rolling off of her and her gesturing for him to come a bit closer. And he imagined lying in her arms and crying softly upon her breasts while she rubbed her stumpy fat fingers through what was left of his thin black hair.

      This wasn’t the first time that such a scenario had played out in Thomas’s mind. And he wasn’t alone. Patrons often expressed an interest in the plain waitress. They usually began to notice her sometime between their sixth and seventh beers. Then the talk would begin. The novelty of it. They always spoke of the novelty of it. A woman with one leg. She was so unusual. So exotic. What was she like? What was it like? The novelty. The leg.

      But these were not Thomas’s interests. It was her meekness. It was her humility. She was nothing like the women he had known in his younger days. She was more like his mother. She was nothing like the women he had known. She was more honest. More herself. She had a fat belly and small breasts, a masculine face and eyes that looked as if they’d shed more tears than any eye should shed. She had a fake leg and she hobbled and limped and her fingers were stumpy and they were fat and the nails on her fingers had been chewed down to their beds. She looked tired and she looked worn and she slouched forward with rounded shoulders and a rounded back which looked tired and worn. She had stains on her shirt and stains on her jeans and she lied about her husband being dead and she looked worn and tired and stained. But she was honest. She was herself.

      Thomas had only ever seen one other woman look so honest. He had only ever seen one other woman look herself. And he’d made that woman his wife. But now he sat alone at The Ragged Urchin sipping his beer and watching this woman limp from table to table. As he did, he tried to remember what it was like to make love to someone so humble, so honest, so true, so real.

      Chapter 7

      The sex was never pleasurable. It was always uncomfortable. Often it was painful. It wasn’t sex, really. It could be called fucking. But even that seemed generous. It was more uncomfortable than anything else. Except for when it was painful. Then it was more painful than anything else. And this time it had been painful.

      “You were right,” said Kitty. “He was grabby.”

      “Did it hurt?” asked the young Egyptian.