Daddy Issues Resolved

Last night I had a dream. It wasn't very dreamlike or abstract. It was pretty easy to remember. You came into my work. You were sitting at table 56. You were with some lady. You probably met her at AA. Half full grapefruit juices and diet Cokes all over the table. I was bartending. The people at the table next to yours were bent out of shape because their burger didn't turn out the way they wanted. I got them a new one, dropped it off then sat down at your table and tried to make small talk with you and your weather-worn-yet-attractive-west-coast-AA-bitch. You couldn't look me in the eye and I called you out for it. I made a scene in my own restaurant. You said you loved me. You said you were 40. You were full of shit. Droopy sad brown eyes. I wasn't expecting that. Thought you'd have eyes like mine. I told you I was 33. "Take it easy, Peter," I said as I walked away. "Robert Hanks is my father." Now I had really made a scene. I walked away from your table. I didn't need a moment to compose myself. I headed back behind the bar and made some drinks for the recooked burger table. It felt good.