Red Room Where the Writers Are

Issue/Publication: The Greensilk Journal

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"I tell you, I don’t care if she is my cousin, I’m done with her."

I was in a coffee shop with my friend, Pam. She was sipping an espresso, her Gucci bag next to her. 
 
"You don’t show up to my son’s birthday party in a provocative dress," she continued. It was a sundress and it was tasteful. Pam exaggerates. "People were embarrassed." No they weren't. But her cousin had looked attractive, and Pam’s husband told her so, which is the reason Pam was pissed off.
 
Pam tucked her Dior sunglasses into her bag and twisted her neck towards the counter. "Where is that waitress?" She sighed and waved her cup. "Hello?" she said, loudly.
 
I met Pam in ninth grade. I didn't choose her, she chose me. I was the new kid, shy and homely. Pam decided I was her project. She gave me a makeover, took me shopping, and dangled me around school to show people how she had "helped" me. Like I was a poodle she rescued from the pound.
 
Pam eyed my muffin. "You’re not going to eat all of that are you?" she asked as I tore apart the second half. I looked at the chocolate chips oozing from the center. I planned to eat it. I wanted to eat it. But I was the fat friend and Pam considered it her duty to play Richard Simmons to my Rosie O’Donnell.
 
The waitress glanced over from another table and held up a finger. Pam rolled her eyes and said, "Like I have all day."
 
"She’s just working on a good tip," I said.
 
Pam looked like I slapped her. "What are  you saying, Jane? That I don’t tip well?"
 
"I didn't mean--"
 
"Because I will have you know I tip twenty percent religiously." Ten percent. Tops. "But the service here is terrible. I am done with this place."
 
I sipped my coffee and counted how many times Pam had been "done" with things. She dropped people, restaurants, and shops more than a mariner drops an anchor.
 
The waitress brought us two more coffees and apologized for the delay. She was about to set my cappuccino down when a man bumped her, sailing the frothy drink into my lap.
 
Pam shrieked like she were the one with hot coffee dripping down her legs.
 
The waitress panicked. "I am soooo sorry. I’ll grab a towel." She rushed away. 
           
"Ridiculous! How careless is that? I tell you, I am done with this place," she said.
 
The waitress returned with towels and cleaned the mess. “Your check is on the house. I’m really sorry,” she said.
 
"You could have scarred her. You better foot the cleaning bill, too," Pam barked.
 
The waitress nodded. 
 
"No," I said. "It's fine. I'm okay, really."
 
"Jane, don’t be stupid. You can’t let people get away with bad behavior," Pam said.
 
I looked at Pam. She was right about that.
 
I grabbed my purse. "I'm done," I said, and left her.