I went to the cafe to ogle at the Waitress again. I went in, and I was greeted by the familiar warmth and music of the cafe. I welcomed it, the sound of cheerful music, the blast of warmth from the radiator gently caressed my frozen face. It has been raining again, and of course, I am dressed in my formal black overcoat and trousers. I chose a table, hung up my coat and sat down. The Waitress came over and handed me the Menu. She left to attend to her other customers and I decided that I would have my first whisky. I selected Savoy and a 500 ml bottle of Heineken beer, and waited for her to turn up.
A minute or so later she came to take my order. She didn’t offer me her usual Shalom, but wished me a good morning. I looked up because I like her face, and there were signs of domestic abuse on her face, hidden by her make-up. I could make them out, little swellings and discolorations near her eyes. There was a gash near her full lips, but she had it covered with foundation or whatever the fuck it is that women put on their faces. I felt a mad rage for a second. I hate domestic abuse, and I for a second I was going to ask the Waitress if she was going to be okay, but I just told her what I wanted. She must have realized my rage from the expression on my face because she stuttered and left quickly.
I hate domestic abuse. I fucking hate the shit, regardless of the sex involved. I don’t care if a man beats a woman or a woman beats a man, I fucking loathe it and my blood boils at the very thought of physical and mental abuse that anyone in that kind of situation has to face. I fucking felt the anger course through my nerves as I saw the pretty face of the waitress battered like that. She did try to hide it with her make up but fuck that, fuck it all with a meat cleaver. I drank my whisky when she brought it but I didn’t dare make a move. I’m not one to intrude on other people’s private lives. Part of me, in this post drunken, now sober, state of mind thinks that I should have asked if she was okay. It is appropriate to ask a person with a bruise on the face if they are fucking okay! Another part of me just shrugged it off. I am afraid of the latter.