Dinner with Stingy Steve
A work of high literature
We dropped our knives, plates laid bare, and settled into an unsettling stare.
For we knew each other, all too well.
The voice of the waitress was our dinner’s death knell.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she said...
The bill sat still in no man’s land,
But neither faction would take a stand.
Two warring parties, without reprieve.
Steve and me, me and Steve.
The waitress returned and noticed the standoff.
She stayed for a minute, expecting a handoff.
At this point in time, other diners were staring.
Eager to see how our patience was faring.
They watched ever closely, eating main course.
Immovable object vs unstoppable force.
And just when I thought old Steve would concede,
His lids got wider, eyes started to bleed.
It came to me then, in this pivotal moment,
Neither Steve nor me was our subject of torment.
The poor waitress before us, who’d waited an hour, whose mood, once happy, was now painfully sour.
“We’re closing in 10 mins,” she said…
Nevertheless, we soldiers persisted.
To reach for the bill we wholly resisted.
That’s when it happened. Our waitress was crying.
And I broke like an egg on a pan that was frying.
I reached for the bill, Steve’s grin uncontained.
“This one’s on me,” I sadly proclaimed.
We shook hands and stood up. By god, what a fight.
And after I’d paid we made into the night.
I was bruised and scarred and battered near blind.
But that grief-stricken waitress still played on my mind.
Poor old gal bore the brunt of our clash.
As soon as I’d signed, she’d made off in a flash.
I considered my actions and felt like a child,
Resolved to be better — to not be reviled.
I made my way home, on my couch I did sit.
Only then did I realize, I’d forgotten to tip.
