"Meet Sharon, boys" Ric carefully laid out three silver dollars on the counter." Sharon smiled, put the coins in the pocket of her apron and directed us to the podium, where she consulted the reservation book. Holmes, Harleigh .....Mixter, Trig .... and of course Mr. Lounge. She ticked off our names and hit the bell to summon the Maitresse D'. Double doors upholstered in turquoise leatherette, trimmed in stainless with porthole windows opened simultaneously.
She was spray painted into a glacier blue satin sarong. The drapery of her dress teased out every curve; each pleat terminating at the good bits. Audacious twin peaks presided over cleavage deep as the Mariannis Trench. A plastic name tag over her heart read;
Hello, I'm Randy
"Short for Miranda" she said aware of our keen interest in her identification. She smelled like lavender and warm sugar cookies. "Right this way boys, your tables' waiting." Her voice was deep, grade A maple syrup a 'Lyric Contralto' with a vocal range somewhere between F below middle C and my wedding vegetables.
Randy turned; gun - turret - tank. Her hips swayed like an engraved invitation all the way to a table reserved for three directly under the sax players chin.
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