You stand in front of the door peering inside. It’s ten minutes before closing time. You know this because the glass door through which you watch me sweep has the cafe hours clearly displayed.
Someone waves from across the street and you beckon to them. As they wait for the lights to change, a few more people join you on the pavement. You indicate the pub on the adjacent corner and then point inside the cafe to the almost empty tables. It doesn’t seem to matter to you that I have cleaned the grill, wiped down the tables, put the food away. You open the door and motion your friends to the largest table.
By the time you have all entered and sat, I count six of you. You order meals. I suggest the pub for dinner. The manager calls out from the kitchen. I take your orders.
You don’t care that I have been on my feet for nine and a half hours, save a ten minute break for lunch. You don’t care that my youngest is sick, or that my oldest can’t get his homework done because he is looking after her. You tell me to hurry up with the meals because you want to get a beer before the show. You click at me as I walked back to the kitchen with your order. You tell me to bring water for everyone. You tell me. No please or thank you. You order me.
You chat with your friends as I return to the table with a jug of water and six stacked glasses. As I reach to place the jug on the table you bump my elbow and water sloshes over the edge. You yell at me to be more careful.
You sneer at me as I apologise. You watch as I pick the jug back up and pour the contents into your lap.
What would you do if the situation was reversed?
City Observationist 