Mr. Rejection Was His Psychological Name

And here he sat, staring dreamily at the form of the redheaded pretty waitress at his favorite outdoor cafe, wondering what her hair would feel like if he ran his fingers through it and watching the dimples form at the corner of her mouth as she smiled and took the orders of a table of laughing customers. This cafe was his favorite, he knew, only because she worked there.

She began to turn, and he looked quickly away before she could catch him staring. It had happened once before, and at the time, Melvin thought he was going to vomit. His body had wanted to reject his chef salad like women rejected him: with a huge, retching gag. Rejection had been his middle name since elementary school, but he still wasn't used to it. He knew that his ex wife had only married him because she smelled his money the way monkeys smelled bananas. He had been her money tree, and she had been more than happy to pluck the green right off of him. Then she'd peeled the shorts right off of the lawn boy and got a good taste of THAT particular banana.

Melvin didn't think his waitress had the capability of sniffing the dollar signs on him. She looked too pure, too innocent, and therefor, had no reason to be attracted to him because he knew the only thing he had to offer was money. Her dimples clued him in to her innocence. No woman with dimples and a smile so bright and disarming could have an evil or manipulative bone her in perfect body.