The Cure

So there's this hostess rolling silverware on the back line, right, and she's new, so I don't know her name yet. But she's hot.

Some mindless chit-chat, which leads to me asking her age. "Oh, well, I'm sixteen..."

I just about walked away in mid-conversation, but it was the end of a Saturday night shift and I was on the brink of hallucination.

"I love your hair," I said on a whim. "It reminds me of The Cure."

"The Cure?" the hostess asked. She continued to roll silverware. Her bangs dangled low.

"Yeah, Robert Smith, the Cure," I answered.

"I remind you of a guy?"

"Your hair... Nevermind. I like your bangs."

Later on that night I was cleaning my tables in the lounge. I overheard the new girl talking to Ashleigh, the other hostess, also sixteen. She didn't know I could hear her.

"Have you ever heard of the Cure?" she asked Ashleigh.

"What, you mean like the cure for cancer?"

"No, no, the Cure. Robert Smith."

"Yeah, he plays soccer at Middle Field. So? What about him?"

"No, no, I think it's a band or something."

"The Cure? I don't think so, why?"

"Billy says I remind him of the Cure. He says he likes my bangs."

"Yeah. I think you should cut them."

Oh, well.