Humor Magazine

Seems Like About 20%; Or Yeah, But How Was the Service?

By Pearl
The morning sky is a powdery blue, the clouds edged with a salmon color that really sets off the red in my eyes.
I don’t sleep well, a fact that I feel the need to repeat every now and then. 
Hello.  How are you?  Me, I didn’t sleep well last night.
But I do what I do, as I must, every morning.  Not only does my alarm clock demand this of me, but Dolly Gee Squeakers, formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers, relies on our routines:  the alarm clock, the slap-slap-slap of the snooze button, teeth/hair/lunch/dress/treats for the kitty and then out the door.
Monday through Friday, between the hours of 5:32 and 6:34. 
I cross a busy intersection, imagining that I look crisp and business-like, stepping smartly from road to curb.  I feel urbane and glamorous, no small feat at this time of morning.  Summer is returned, and all things are possible.  The weather has ceased its six-month-long killing spree, the birds have returned and have much to say, the sidewalk is free of ice and full of underwear…
I look down, step over a pair of pink lace and leopard-skin-patterned underwear.  They are neither old nor new.  I decide, for my own sake, to think of them as clean.
They are on the walk way directly in front of restaurant nearest the bus stop.
I stop, back up.  Whose are they?  Does she know they are gone? Were they hurled from an open car window?  Were they left here, in front of the restaurant, in exchange for services rendered?
I move on, reach the bus stop, whereupon I board the stopped bus, waving my scan-able bus card in front of the scan-able bus card reader.  I sit, as I always do, near the rear of the bus and stare out the window at the newly-leafed trees.
Have I been tipping incorrectly all these years?


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