Mr. Davenport

         Mr. Davenport walked into the small café on the side of the interstate and chose a lonely booth in the back. He scrunched his face as he looked around, it wasn’t a very impressive place. The wall paper was pealing and the tables all wobbled. He sighed and looked at the menu.
         When the waitress came to take his order he didn’t even look up. “Three eggs, scrambled. Coffee, black. And one slice of toast, no butter.” He handed her the menu and opened the news paper. Not much news comes from a small unknown place; town festival on the fifteenth, unveiling of the new City Hall, and Mrs. Maybell’s 85th birthday. He skimmed a few more pages then folded it and put it on the table underneath his plate. While he ate he watched the people around him. There was an old man Mexican man in the corner with a handle bar mustache, a very large grumpy man sat at the counter and then there was the waitress. He hadn’t really noticed her at first glance but now that he took the time she was reasonably attractive, though she looked over worked. Davenport guessed she had been on for 16 hours by the way her hair hung in the untidy bun, her clothes were stained with food and how her eyes were dark and puffy. Aside from the features of a modern woman trying to make a decent life on below average pay, she resembled a mid twenties woman who could do with some better luck. Davenport was the last person who would be able to accomplish such a feat. If only his luck were to get better he thought to himself.
         The waitress came over to refill his coffee when something caught his eye. A small pendant hung from a chain around her neck. It looked to be some sort of religious representation, one thing you could be sure of was that Mr. R. J. Davenport would know nothing about was religion. He never had one as a child, no God to look to during troubling times, no faith to help him feel better about himself, perhaps that’s what made him the person he is today, perhaps not. When the waitress bent over the table to pour some more coffee, Davenport watched as the pendant hung between her supple breasts.
         “It’s a shame a woman like you is working.” The waitress glanced over at him and looked directly into his eyes. Eye contact was not something most people used anymore, he thought. It was as if she was trying to read him, wondering what his intentions were.
         “You’re right I should be at home cooking for a man instead of in a café.” He could feel his skin sizzling. She was feisty, though you had to be if you were the only woman a man saw in 32 hours.