God, he's sexy

God, he's sexy. The receding hairline. The tall, thin, and muscular frame. The square jaw, the tapered nose, the brown hair with the fair skin. The sensuous lips, the pattern of hair on his thin, solid arms. The snippet of hair escaping from the neck of his white t-shirt under the dark polo. His goatee and the 18-hour growth of stubble on his chin. The naive hopefulness of his 25 or 29 years, who cares what it is -- it's not yet 30. The silky, smooth texture of his voice as he asks me what I want to eat.

I come to this diner every day. I've been coming here every night for dinner since Matilda took the girls and left. Monday is the baked chicken, Tuesday the spaghetti, Wednesday the tuna melt, Thursday macaroni and cheese, Friday the filet of fish with french fries. Saturday I have hot dogs and baked beans, and Sunday -- I try to be different but it always ends up the pot roast and mashed potatoes. Tuesday and Saturday are his days off; I know this because he doesn't know about the spaghetti and the hot dogs. I wonder if he's noticed that I have the same thing each day of every week, I wonder if he sees me watching him. I wonder if there's any reaction.

I lay awake at night, the neon sign of the Motel 6 flashing mercilessly in the window of my trailer by the creek, my mind numbed by cheap vodka and my body numbed by even cheaper women from Lulu's Lounge. I lay on my futon in my wife beater and no shorts, 15-year old silk sheets that still have Matilda's scent on them, wondering when it all went wrong -- and I think of his body, the map of hair on his torso as it leads south to his crotch, I think of him lying next to me in this bed, his stubbly beard on my chest, the texture of my rough hand on his smooth behind as he wraps me with his arms and legs. And I see the way out.

I'm looking at him right now, afraid my stare is becoming obvious. But it's not. I'm just another overweight customer, sitting here at the bar, another 250-pound bar-fly-slash-fast-food-junkie that no one really sees. No one looks into my head, no one really sees who I am, no one really knows that I have feelings and thoughts and emotions and fantasies. No one really sees my desires or acknowledges my needs. This waiter probably goes home to the fevered charges of his curvy girlfriend, nary a thought of the overweight beer guzzler who's been captivated by his beauty.