Why doesn’t she remember me?

I eat breakfast here at least three days a week, sitting at the same table, ordering from the same girl and yet she does not even show a hint of recognition. I am beginning to think that my playful banter is less charming than I give myself credit for.

She saunters over with the enthusiasm of a snobby university student who thinks waitressing is beneath her and gives me the fuck-you-and-your-fancy-job smile as she takes my order. Still nothing, not even an eye-rolling when I order the exact same thing as I always order.

I don’t know why it frustrates me. I have never been fantastic with women. I’ve done OK with the ladies but really what man is satisfied with just doing OK? Not me, but it seems to be beyond me to figure out how to rectify it. And this girl not remembering me is annoying me.

Normally I’m fine at this part – the friendly, playful, flirty banter part. That’s where I’m golden. It’s what comes next where I fail miserably. I struggle to extend that flirting into something more. Something more meaningful, or just something more physical. I’d take either right now.

Maybe that is why this girl is bothering me. She seems impervious to my flirting skills. She is not responding at all and if I lose my flirting skills then I am really up shit creek. I used to say that if there was a world cup for flirting, just flirting, I’d be in with a good chance at taking the title home, but this girl has got me second guessing all that.

I just heard myself say that world cup thing and it dawned on me precisely how lame it sounds. Scratch that from the funny-things-to-say-to-people-at-parties list.

She comes back over with my coffee and carelessly plonks it on the table, spilling coffee over the sides of the mug and down onto the table. She mumbles a half-arsed apology as she looks at the spillage with disdain and I see my opportunity.

“Don’t worry about it.” I say smoothly as I grab some napkins to soak up the coffee but in my rush I bump the mug again and spill even more. The coffee puddle is now a river and the slope of the table is making it run directly towards my lap. I realise that I don’t have enough napkins so I awkwardly spread my legs to prevent the coffee reaching my suit pants and watch it splash lazily onto the ground. Now we have a coffee waterfall.

The waitress laughs and I feel my face turning red. I tell her I’m not normally clumsy and she laughs more and then disappears out the back to retrieve the mop. At least I assume that’s what she’s doing.

I sip my coffee and it's terrible. It tasks like chewing burnt cigarette butts. Why do I even bother coming here?

The girl reappears, sans-mop, and I look back down at the small lake of coffee forming on the floor between my legs. Without warning she produces a towel and gets down on her hands and knees to wipe up the mess. She works hard, her head bobbing back and forth with her motion, alarmingly close to my crotch. I try desperately hard to not think sexual thoughts about the good looking waitress between my legs but that has as much success when people tell you not to think about pink elephants.

I feel blood rushing from all over my body toward my crotch. I need to readjust myself but I'm frozen. If I do anything it will be obvious what is going on. If I don't then...

She finishes her clean up job and puts a hand on my knee as she looks up at me. My head is spinning. This cannot be happening. It's like some weird fantasy where logic stops and crazy sexually energised encounters spontaneously happen. I decide to lean in to kiss her.

She pushes herself up and I realise she was just using my knee for leverage from the floor. As she stands her vision passes over the newly formed bulge in my pants and her eyes widen, taken aback. She cannot hide the brief flash of surprise that paints her face before changing in to a cheeky knowing smile. I guess she will remember me now.