Author's Note:
I really love taking actual scenarios and turning them into tiny "snapshot stories," immortalizing the moment in writing. Usually I use it as a way to pull traumatic memories out of myself so that I can better address them, but in this case it was a way to showcase an experience that made me fume on the inside while I had to remain professional and perky on the outside.
The old man nodded at her blouse, implying once again that she was revealing too much cleavage.
She sighed, knowing full well that all that showed was the flat of her chest and, if she leaned over the counter just right, a bit of a crease. This was getting tiresome. He'd been making comments for weeks, either criticizing or approving of her attire, going so far as to tell her this was "a restaurant, not a disco*."
She was a hostess.
She was dressed appropriately.
And today she'd had enough...
... so she just stared back at him.
Wordlessly he tried to drive his point home, pulling his own collar down as he raised his eyebrows at her with acute intention.
She stared.
He pulled it down farther.
She stared.
He pulled it even farther and shoved his shoulders forward, creating his own cleavage and flashing a nipple in the process.
And still she just stared, unfazed, watching as he made an ass of himself at the front of the restaurant.
When he had quite finished, she handed him a menu and some silverware, knowing he would head for his regular booth in the back.
"Enjoy your meal!" she said brightly, pleased that, at least for today, she had won.
*He'd actually fumbled over this word, and it was apparent he'd intended something probably more along the lines of a "brothel" or "strip club" rather than "disco."