Her left eye turns in a little bit, toward her nose. But when you see her from the side she looks perfect. You can't even tell. It's only obvious when her relatives wipe her mouth. They don't need to do that in front of everyone in the restaurant. She's as old as I am. I'm sure that, growing up relying on them, they're probably the only ones she trusts, or has ever trusted, but she seems strong enough where they shouldn't wipe her mouth in public if they don't need to. I think she probably trusts them too much. And if she understands the concept of trust, then I'm sure she understands embarrassment too.

I'm sure it's them who dress her in those boxy, old lady dresses. She can't have any identity of her own, so they impose theirs on her; and with their identity comes their age. So she and the whole old family wear the same type of clothes and they come in the restaurant and they say: "We'll have our regular table." She dresses and dines with the elderly and I wonder if the premature imposition of old age is worse than the situation god put her in; a least with a mental handicap, you still begin with a clean slate.

I take their order, standing next to the man I assume is her father because he sits at the head of their long table and orders for everyone. And while he and the family bury their faces in their menus, she, on the far end of the table, stares at her grandmother, who is always directly across from her. And I stare at her profile, her full lips turning out and away from each other. And I think about kissing her because from the side, you can't really tell. Except for the boxy dresses.

Minutes later I bring food to their table, and she notices me when I set food in front of her face. And I ask her if she needs a refill and before she can form the words herself, one of her old lady relatives answers: "Yes," She'll have water." And I always wait for her herself to nod or smile to tell me: 'Yes, I'd like water.' But sometimes she doesn't and I get the water for her anyway. And I feel her staring at me as I walk away from the table.

Two nights ago they came in as the restaurant was closing. I was cleaning the section and another waiter stood by the patriarch, taking the family order. She didn't stare across at her grandmother, and she didn't stare at their waiter. She kept on me as I mopped. She smiled and stared and her front teeth poked over her thick bottom lip; as thick as a pinky. And I made myself look away. But when I looked back she was still staring. So I went into the kitchen and waited until they left to finish mopping the floor.

The next morning I walked around campus looking for something to write about for THE PAPER, but really looking at the college girls and feeding the frustrated fire of my sexuality with far away visions of sweet young bodies with underdeveloped brains in them. They're outside the student center, at the art building, in the dance building; blonde, brunette, Russian, English, Puerto Rican, untraditional or perfect, some pretty but not sexy, some sexy but not really pretty, in the English Department, outside the theater building. But she was in the cafeteria, her hair in a net, her boxy old lady dress was substituted with a work smock and she held a tray to her chest, not knowing which direction to go.

I stood at the cash register looking at her straight on, her right eye sort of crooked and her big beautiful mouth. If she can hold down a job, she's strong enough where they shouldn't be wiping her mouth in public.

(click here to post your opinons on this s(h)ite. --- Ed.)