He noticed her hands were gnarled with arthritis. She must’ve been at least seventy, with bright, theatrical smile. Wearing a tuxedo-like uniform—crisp white blouse, cropped black jacket, black pants.
She called him, “sir,” dressed the salad at the table expertly, quickly—with those twiggy hands. Announcing each ingredient as she performed. “Worcestershire. Parmesan. Pepper, sir?”
I watched her limp quickly away between the crowded tables, keeping pace with the younger staff—the smile gone until she returned.