Fiction | June 01, 1992
Waiter
Tim Stark
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I’ve been turning them away all night. This time, three shapely girls shake tigh-skirted hips and fix me with brightening eyes, anything to get past the sliding glass door separating this raucous bar crowd from the ambassador Room. Beyond the Ambassador Room, a portrait-lined hallway leads to the Dining Entrance as well as the clean, marbled privacy of the exclusive rest rooms. It’s the rest rooms they want. This side of the dorr, the ladies room downstairs is a thirty minute wait, fifteen for the gents.
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