Work

I was in love with the teenage girl in sitting in table two oh four, position three.  She had drained her water glass fifteen times in the one hour span between her arrival and departure—an era that I like to refer to as "the Watering Hour." Once every four minutes. A record.

Fifteen times.

The old ladies sitting around the table with my love had no concept of proper hydration. Once, I idly over-filled one of their glasses that was already full. Water spilled over the rim of the crystal and soaked into the paper.

"Excuse me. I did not expect that a human could survive so long without taking a single sip of liquid refreshment. I often wonder why I even exist. Do you realize that it is my sole purpose in this job to refill your water? When I come to your table and all the ice has melted and the water is still touching the brim of the glass, something evil stirs within me."

"Pardon me?"

"You are not pardoned. May you burn in Hell."

Oh, if only I had the wits for such an exchange! The older ones frighten me, and I cannot utter anything above a whisper or anything longer than a few short syllables. The actual incident proceeded thusly: I spilled the water. I gasped an almost silent, "I'm sorry!"  The old lady failed to acknowledge my presence. I turned from the table with a pained expression and nearly ran to return the pitcher to its place on the ledge near the kitchen. I am timid in the presence of wrinkling carcasses such as those.

It wasn't long before I found myself back at that very same table filling the teenage girl's empty glass, however, and I was cheered up considerably. I wanted to sing! I'd write her a letter someday:

Dear Teenage Girl,

Would you like some more water? I would be glad to refill you!

Sincerely,
The Busboy

The pleasure I derive from making sure everyone is well-hydrated seems inexplicable to the casual reader. Consider this: I am a simple busboy. There are only a few number of things I can do in the restaurant to improve our patrons' dining experience. When I see an empty glass, it is a rare opportunity for me to make the world a better place. An empty glass appears in my eyes the same way a fire to appears to a fireman's. I say to myself—I can fix that! I can do my job! It excites me. This girl had a problem: extreme thirst. I offered a solution: an unrelenting supply of ice water. Our relationship was simple yet meaningful. Each time I poured her water, I feel that we really connected on an emotional level. We represented a liquid symbiosis of give-and-receive, bonded together with a sweating crystal glass.

When, finally, their meal was complete and it was time for them to depart, I had one last opportunity to help. She sucked the last gulps from the bottom of the glass and called me over. Her voice was smooth.

"Where are the restrooms?"

I was glad to show her.