The Room - slow ride

He stood, looking forward.

The room was still.

The room then shifted into the restaurant. He had on his black apron, covering his waist and pelvis in pens, notepads, smudges of various dips and dressings, and paper straw wrappers. "Slow Ride" was playing over the dining floor, and no families sat in the maroon chairs. It was empty. Jill glided by, showing off her new tye-dye hoodie and cyst, laughing like an 80 year old man who had smoked all of his life, and bitching about the new servers. She looked at him demeaningly, then smirked. "Here's your money," she rasped, placing a five twenties in his hand. "Hope it was worth it." She glided away.

He looked at the money. He felt humiliated and self-conscious. It wasn't worth it.

The restaurant shifted. The room returned.

"What did you see?" I asked him.

"It's starting to become not worth it anymore. You should quit," he answered.

I would take it into consideration.

-Brock-