This was a little piece written for a friend of mine. A very dear friend, actually. I am thinking of making a small series of this story about Mara and her customer.
Untitled
Mara Dean made sure no one was around as she pulled her thigh-high stockings back up in place. Being a short, but rounded woman, she could never get the right kind of stockings or hosiery. If she bought for her shape (and she was just a bit overweight, mind you) the stockings were made for a woman three feet taller than she. If she bought for her height, then they were too tight and rolled down. Well, they rolled no matter what. Mara, not for the first time that day, wondered why she didn't invest in a good garter belt.
“Are you done fixing yourself?” Mara looked up to see one of her coworkers peering back at her. She couldn't call the woman a friend. Friends went out together. Mara never even went to Happy Hour with her coworkers. She kept work to one side and her personal life to the other, and never would the two meet.
“Yeah, I'm fine,” she said giving her stockings one last tug. That should stay for at least a half an hour before she'd have to fix them again. She picked up her serving tray and made her way back into the restaurant. Mara worked for a themed eatery, one that apparently had no idea which theme it was ripping off. The name was The Pub, and served what it thought was pub food. Everything was supposed to be very “English” with an actual newspaper sent in from London and booklets on How to Speak the Englishman's English sitting in the waiting area. But the dress was very Scottish. Men had to wear kilts. The women, however, there was nothing English or Scottish about them. Mara's uniform was a short little plaid skirt, a bit longer then that of her skinnier colleagues, and a black top that hugged her large breasts. She wasn't sure where the owners had dined in England, but her costume was more along the lines of 'naughty schoolgirl' than English pub.
“Just put one in your section, Mara,” said Bill, her manager. “Misty is getting his drink. Where did you vanish off to?”
“Stocking problem,” she said. “They were trying to make a break for my ankles.”
Bill sighed. “Get a garter belt or wear full hose.”
Mara shrugged. She would get full hose, but she had the same problem. Too small and they rolled down in an instant, too big and they pooled around her legs. The hosiery market needed to cater to her body shape a bit more. She could not be the only woman who fell between the cracks. If she could find a garter belt that didn't seem to be made for skinny six-foot-tall models, she'd buy one.
Mara waited until she saw Misty walk away from the table. Misty was everything Mara was not: tall, blonde and never had a problem with her stockings. Men just flocked to her and she always made the best tips. Of course, Misty somehow managed to flash a lot of cleavage in her shirt, and that might explain her popularity. Mara wanted to tell her that this wasn't Hooters, despite what the owners made them wear.
After Misty had gone, Mara made her way over to the table. Her guest was a very handsome man with dark hair and gray eyes. No wonder Misty had given him her patented 'Oh, let me show something on the menu, please don't mind my boobs in your face' bend.
“Hi, I'm Mara. I'll be your waitress for the night. Are you ready to order or would you like a few more minutes?”
“A few minutes, please.” He had an accent! Mara prided herself on recognizing accents and thought it was Australian. It had to be, she thought. She kept thinking he was going to yelp out 'Crikey' at any moment. With a voice like that, she was surprised Misty hadn't been in his lap.
Mara nodded, feeling her neck heat up. Handsome with an accent, her perfect combination. She was going to have a hard time not drooling over him. As long as it's not in the food, she thought.
She ducked into the kitchens to wait. When she saw Misty getting the man's drink, she said, “Oh, I'll bring that out.”
“I took the order,” Misty said.
“My table,” Mara replied.
“I told him I'm going to be his waitress, Mara.”
“Funny, he didn't mention that when I went up to see about his order.”
“We'll see about that,” Misty said. She went to move around Mara and knocked into one of the waiters, spilling the drink down the front of her. Mara did move out of the way for that. Misty snarled, wiping the drink off her chest and glaring at Mara. “You did that on purpose!”
“I never touched you.”
Misty lunged at Mara, but was held back by the waiter. Still swearing, she was pushed away to go change her clothes. Mara shrugged, pretending it didn't bother her, but she knew Misty was one of those alpha bitches and she had just one-upped her. For Misty, it would be war until she either felt like she tortured Mara enough, or Mara quit.
Trying to not let it bother her, she got another drink for her table and brought it out. Smiling, she said, “Have you decided?”
“Yeah, I'll just have the pub burger and some of those fried pickles. Are they any good?”
Mara nodded. “The best. I could have them every day.” She wrote down his order and promised to be back in a jiffy. Getting to the back, she had to get herself some water to cool the burning inside. Always one to blush easily, she knew she was red like a fire-engine. She just couldn't help it. She may never see this guy again, but that didn't stop her from giving in to a quick daydream of him asking for her phone number.
“Yeah, right, like that would happen,” Mara muttered. Guys never asked for her number. She wasn't Misty.
“Hey, Mara, table six is up!” Mara blinked and got the food. As she started back out to the restaurant, she felt the very familiar tug on her right thigh. She groaned, realizing that her stocking had come loose again. She prayed that it didn't fall down before she had a chance to fix them. She made her way quickly through the dining area to the table.
“Okay, I've got one pub burger and a side of fried pickles,” she said, feeling the stocking inch down even further. By now, it would be seen at the hem of her skirt. She tried to wiggle slightly, hoping it would magically move back up in place.
No such luck. To her embarrassment, it slid down even further. By the time she had put the food on the table, her stocking was sagging. It was definitely the right moment for a hasty retreat.
“Uh, enjoy your food. I'll just get you a refill, okay?” She took the empty glass and headed for the back, her stocking slipping the rest of the way down before she could make it to the door. Bursting in, she put the glass down and cursed.
“Is it supposed to be around your ankle,” Misty asked, snickering at the sight.
Mara didn't answer. She ran to the restroom to pull up her stocking, but found the door locked. Who in their right mind would lock a restroom with three stalls in it? It wasn't like it was one of those private restrooms. Cursing under her breath, she looked around to make sure the coast was clear and hitched up her skirt. Hurriedly, she pulled up her stocking to her thigh and secured it in place.
“And don't drop again,” she said, as if the nylon would obey her. Looking up to leave, she froze when she saw Mr Hot-and-Australian standing by the men's room door. Her whole face turned such a bright shade of crimson, she was sure she lost blood in most of her body. Mara got out a few “uh” and “ums” but nothing intelligible.
Her customer smiled. “Loved the show,” he said and went into the men's room. Mortified, she went back to the kitchens. She was unable to meet his eyes when she brought him out a drink, nor when she brought him his check.
Though, to her surprise, she got a nice tip. There was a note attached to it. “For the sweetest waitress ever.”