A waiter

"You're up, John. Tables six and seven." Ms. Spiegelman, your manager, tells you.

"On it," you say. Two tables together means a large group, probably celebrating something, and that often means a large tip as well.

Spiegelman gives you a stern look. She isn't a bad manager, you suppose. But she's been cold to you ever since you spilled that drink on a customer three weeks ago. I get it, you think, I screwed up. But she's overreacting. A thin, bespectacled older woman -- mid-forties, maybe? -- she'd probably be attractive if she didn't have that perma-scowl. Although personally, you prefer women with a bit more curves, she verges on bony. (There are those who would say that your tendency to think of all women in terms of their attractiveness is sexist. You feel that those people should mind their own business.)

Her clothing has always perplexed you. She's the only manager you've ever had who dresses like she's in an office. A skirt, blouse, pantyhose, even high heels -- it is a complete mystery to you how she manages to spend most of her working day in a kitchen and never get a stain on her clothing. Her only concession to the practicalities of the kitchen environment is her mandated hairnet.

You quickly head to your assigned tables and see that your guess was right -- it is clearly a party. Pride of place is given to a young, attractive blonde woman in a low-cut white shirt. Why couldn't I have had the luck to spill that drink on her? you think. "Welcome to S&S Steakhouse," you say, putting on your friendly customer service voice. "What's the occasion?"

The cute blonde glances up at you. "My eighteenth birthday," she says disinterestedly, apparently not interested in making conversation with the waiter.

You pull out your notepad. "Can I start you off with drinks while you're deciding what to order?" you ask, taking a step closer to her. From your new position standing over her, you can see right down her shirt, a very pleasant view indeed.

She scoots her chair a little away from you, apparently having been made uncomfortable. A lot of female customers have made complaints about that sort of thing lately. Come to think of it, that might also have something to do with Spiegelman's unfriendly attitude towards you.

The girl clasps her hands, apparently casual but clearly placing them to block your view of her cleavage. Ah shit, she noticed, you think. There's going to be another complaint, and you'll probably get stiffed on the tip as well.

She opens her mouth to order, but is interrupted by the middle-aged man next to her -- her father, presumably. He is frowning, but not at you as you would have expected. "Now, Helen," he says, "you're being rude." You and the girl -- Helen, apparently -- both look at him, wondering what he's talking about. "These waiters work hard, and for not much pay," he explains, "the least you could do is let him look at your breasts."

You stare at him in disbelief, wondering if this is some sort of sarcasm. Helen, however, nods as if this is a completely normal thing to say. "Oh, yeah, sorry about that," she says. She takes hold of the top of her shirt in both hands and pulls the neckline even lower. She leans forward a bit, angling herself so that you have a perfect unobstructed sightline, still holding the neckline to provide you with the best possible viewing conditions. "Is that better?"