On autopilot, I ripped their copy of the order from my pad and left it onthe table. I walked away, unable to believe what was going on. I wasn'tin control of myself. I mean, I was doing these things, but it was likean instinct to do them. Like swatting at a fly or pressing the break in acar.I didn't know how I knew, but I knew I was making my way towards to tillto enter their order. I shook my head and made a detour towards thebathroom.I closed to door behind me, quickly scanned the room to make sure no onewas there, and twisted the lock for some privacy.I almost cried when I looked in the mirror.It was me, but I was in the Bobby-Joe's waitress uniform, complete withpinstripes, hat, apron and plastic rocket nametag. It was my ownhandwriting on the nametag, with a heart over the 'i'. My hair was tiedinto a tight bun under my hat, keeping any stray hairs tightly underwraps.I ran my hands along the cheap polyester uniform. It stopped halfway upmy thighs, continuing on as see-through. "She got sarcastic, "Why? Do you have a 'headache'?"She cut right to it "I need you to roll me one," she confessed.To get her out of my hair, I quickly took her papers and did the honors, and then I threw my own zinger, "Do you want me to smoke it too?"She fired up, took a long drag, then after holding it down for as long as she could, she said, "You COULD unwind, Reese. You're all tensed up."She shoved the joint toward me and I riposted, "I got something for you to smoke!" And as I said it, I grabbed my crotch, 'Madonna' style.Marsha uttered the fateful words, "You wouldn't know what to do with it!"I said, "I bet I could choke YOU if you tried it!"After another hit or two, Marsha was high as a kite, and she called my bluff by saying, "If you can show more than my eight fingers (holding them side by side), then I'll do you!"Well, I could show eight of my thicker fingers so I found myself stripping for action, and Marsha took over that chore while handing me the joint.She said, "Sex is.
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