Written All Over My Face

I walk into the Restaurant today after a brief vacation to be met by a set of curiously raised eyebrows on our hostess's face. Before I can even open my mouth to ask what she was on about, she deadpans: "You had sex."

It was a good vacation.

It doesn't stop there, however. As I deliver drinks to table 73, one of the occupants says to me, with a slight smirk,"Someone had a good night last night." Without giving it a second thought, I quite contentedly reply, "Oh yeah, very good." No. NONO. What have I said. Upon realizing that I quite bluntly blurted a mildly risqué response, and that I have no idea who these people are or how they could possibly have known the intimate nature of my previous night's activities, my eyes grow quite wide and my mouth forms a small "o" as if realization that I had just eaten a bug. My face turns a violent shade of red that resembles nothing more closely than a fully ripe tomato. The man who made the initial comment laughed amusedly at my apparent discomfort, and pointed to my neck, as if in explaination. And then it dawns on me.

"I saw your hickey, sugar," he says. I then grimace in same manner as Lucille Ball (circa "Vitametavegamin") and omit a nervous laugh which I attempt to make nonchalant, but probably comes off as more pathetically desperate for an excuse to leave. And I did, just then. I don't know whether I'm more embarassed about him seeing my hickey, or my acknowledgement to his insinuation.



This isn't all bad however. Despite my brief encounter with mortification, I spend most of the night walking around in a blissful daze most often associated with the post-coital morning-after of a night of you know what.

And though the Restaurant was torturously dead, I make more money off of fewer tables than should be allowed. Blame it on my good mood and subsequent extra cheerful demeanor. Conclusion: Should engage in sexual activity much more often. If only for the sake of better tips.