Wait for her.

"Don't worry about the napkins, sugar," she said huskily. "I'll be right back."

I watched the waitress's ass swaying as she headed back toward the kitchen. Despite the stray strands of hair, her tight black bun was almost too perfect, a throwback diner to waitresses past. But given the heat, I could understand why she didn't want any hair on her neck. She must have said something to the cook, because I heard the other woman's laughter, but I couldn't make out any words over the creaking of the ceiling fans.

I sipped my Coke and enjoyed as best I could the coolness of the spilled ice water on my pants. Unfortunately it wasn't going to stay cool for long, but there shouldn't be too long a period of moist stickiness before it dried out in the desert air.

The waitress came back with another glass of ice water, a pitcher in her other hand, and a white towel over her shoulder. This time I looked at her feet. White rubber-soled aerobic shoes, and a soft, even tread. No wonder I hadn't heard her coming.

"Here you are, sugar, you look thirsty," she said.

"Does the Coke come with refills too?" I asked.

"As many as you like, hon," she said. "Till you're peeing cola."

I blinked and did a double take. She winked at me.

"Let me put a towel under you," she said.

"Thanks," I replied.

I pushed up off the vinyl-covered bench and let her put the towel under me. She wrapped it up around my lap. I felt her press against my half-erection, which jumped under her hand. My eyes jumped from her cleavage up to her face, but she seemed calm and unconcerned as she removed her hands. Did she do that on purpose or was I imagining things?

"You're welcome," she said.

"This a quiet day?" I asked.

"Most afternoons are pretty quiet," she said. "We're glad for a little business."

"I bet," I said. "It seems pretty quiet for miles in every direction. What do you do for fun out here?"