Waitressing

My shift was over, the restaurant was empty,
even the bar stools had gone cold and they
were still there; two women nursing one glass
of wine and one cup of tea.
I brought over the bill and let them
know I was leaving soon and they still
sat there laughing and talking, in those
confidential tones that women use
when they are with each other.
I was hoping for a national emergency,
a fire, or a flood to get them out of there
when I heard a wine glass shatter on the floor
and saw smoke rising from over their table.
A menu was on fire; apparently this
inanimate object heard my distress call and
tottered over the candle; in the rush to
quench the fire, one of them knocked
over her wine glass.
The estrogen spell broken, they apologized
profusely, grabbed their coats and headed
out.