Mr. Snap-At-The-Server — "Excuse Me, Sweetheart"

Lyrics

[Intro]
Eighth top of the night.
My feet are just a memory of feet.
Table four.
You sat down like you owned the patent on chairs.

[Verse 1]
You ordered the steak. Medium-rare.
Said it twice, like a little threat.
I wrote it down.
Smiled the smile I'm paid to smile.
The kitchen nailed it, of course they did.
Chef Antoine is a master.
A perfect, warm line of pink.
I set it down on the white linen.
And I saw the look in your eye.
The stage was set.
Your friends were watching.
Showtime.

[Chorus]
And you flagged me down with a flick of your wrist.
"Excuse me, sweetheart."
The word landing like a wet rag on a clean table.
"I asked for medium-rare."
And I looked at the plate.
And you looked at your friends.
And we all knew the truth was a guest who wasn't invited to this dinner.

[Verse 2]
You performed the eye-roll.
A little masterpiece for the table.
A perfect, slow arc of condescension.
They chuckled, a nervous sound, like birds in a storm.
I held my smile in place with both hands.
My face a professional mask.
I said, "I'm so sorry about that, sir. Let me get that fixed for you immediately."
But you waved me away with a sigh you must have practiced.
"No, no. Don't worry about it. I'll... suffer through it."
The magnanimous king.

[Bridge]
I keep a ledger in my head.
Not for tips, but for faces.
For the precise shade of disappointment you wear.
For the weight of your performance on my eighth table, on a Tuesday.
This isn't food service.
It's emotional labor.
And the pay is never what it should be, is it?
Never covers the cost of the bite marks on your tongue.

[Outro]
Later, the bill folder.
Black vinyl, still warm from your hands.
Your signature, a jagged, important line.
The tip line, a final, quiet little snap.
Cut in half.
An exclamation point on your little play.
The smell of your cologne and grilled meat still hangs in the air.
Sweetheart.