Page 3 of DadBod

The third woman, the youngest of the three, uses her finger to gesture me to move in closer. Bending at the waist, I do as she bids. “Honey,” she sighs. “The sexual tension between you and that hunk of man was off the charts.”

“Uh––” Sexual tension?

“It’s obvious there’s something going on between the two of you.”

“Uh––” Going on? Between me and Rome?

Ha! That’s hilarious.

Woman number two nods her head slowly, adding, “Well, of course there is. He’s smitten. Just look at yourself.”

“I try not to.” And smitten?

The three women titter. There’s no better word to describe the sound they’re making. They’re tittering.

I wasn’t trying to be funny, though. Honest to goodness. I do my best to avoid mirrors. Hell, any reflective surface.

Sure. I know I’m not hideous, but I’m nothing to phone home about either. My hair is brown and straight. It’s also thin and fine. I keep it shoulder-length because any longer and it just looks stringy. As for my body. I could lose weight. That’s obvious. My thighs are, well, girthy. My brothers used to call me “Thunder Thighs.” I’ll let you take that visual from here. I can live with my thighs. It’s my teeth that make me cringe. No amount of dieting is going to change those things.

Doing my best to move this along so I can get back to my other tables, I ask, “Can I get you ladies something to drink?”

I quickly write down their drink orders and race over to our point of sale, or POS, station. (That’s where we input everyone’s orders.) Reluctantly, I also add the man’s veal order.