Creative.Metaphor

Silent Dancer
By Robin Zemek

I hold the power in my hands. Well, not really. I hold the potatoes. Your potatoes if you come into this restaurant. It’s more like an eatery, or a public trough. I work the deep-fryer. Every good trough has a deep-fryer.
I glance around. No ones looking. Good, now would be an opportune time to spit in the fries. But hark! An angel has entered the trough. And what an angel! I didn’t know such beauty would eat fast food, or any food for that matter. I hope she doesn’t throw it up later, I work hard at these fries and it would be a shame for them to end up in a toilet. Right away that is.
She has a bounce in her step, a happy smile on her face. And blonde locks. Well, hair at least. I’m not sure what qualifies as locks. I’m sure Goldilocks would know. But she probably wasn’t the smartest fairy tale character, messing with bear’s porridge and whatnot. She’d probably just giggle:
“Tee hee. I have golden locks,” she’d say, curling them with her finger. And I’d punch her in the throat. I’m just a violent person I guess.
I shake the potatoes menacingly, like I’m trying to get information from them.
“Where is the Beckland Diamond?” I jest, “what’s that? You better speak up. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to Mrs. Potatohead now would we? Something involving tin foil and an oven. Maybe some sour cream. Or bacon bits. Crispy, crispy bacon bits.”
I put the fries back down, into the boiling oil.
“Leaving so soon? Things were just starting to heat up.” I laugh at my own pun and look around for the angel. Maybe she heard. I’m so witty.
There she was, sitting alone at a table. She’s tapping her feet, shifting them around, like dance steps. Yes, she is a silent dancer. My silent dancer. Hopefully. If I had the nerve.
But lo! My stare is interrupted; a rather large woman sits inbetween me and my prize. She was a punk, with more chains than something with numerous ammounts of chain, like a chain factory. Or chain mail. Or a chain letter. Oh how I hate chain letters.
I return to the fries. I won’t spit in them, the silent dancer might want them.