The hostess stands at her station.
She is wearing a tight black t-shirt
that scoops just shallow of her
young and lovely breasts.

The close-fitting red tartan
miniskirt hugs her hips
the pleats flirting
with her thighs.

Her thick black liner
betrays her eyes as she
looks down into the
short black apron
framed by the skirt.

(She has hidden
her cell phone inside.)

Her eyebrows knit
and her chestnut ponytail
whips angrily.

Although she greets guests cheerfully
she is waging war with a remote enemy.

I witness her surreptitious
maneuvers and tactics
in between
sips of
Jameson.

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