Megan Leahey
Bio
I love writing and that's why I never do it!
Stories (2/0)
Pancake House
When 3 A.M. hits, the booths will be full and the back kitchen will be bustling, but for now the young waitresses are sitting in the back of the restaurant organizing sugar packets into black boxes. The lamp above them flickers slightly. Their manager, a middle aged man from Morocco with a receding hairline, will bark at them from the hostess stand, telling them they need to look professional and stand up. They all groan only loud enough for each other to hear. When the door opens for the first time since the dinner rush, they exchange knowing glances to see who is brave enough to seat the party and serve them until they finally decide to leave. Time seems to be altered when the rest of the city sleeps. Their customers are somewhere in the heart of the city, dancing with strangers and downing their overpriced drinks. When everyone is blissfully inebriated and stumbling home in their heels, they’ll nestle into the cozy restaurant and order heaps of greasy bacon and hash browns. They’ll split a cab home with their friends, not thinking twice about how they stiffed the waitress on a tip because the pancakes were a bit soggy. They will slink into their unmade beds with their makeup and hair fully undone and fall asleep as the sun rises over the trees. But I will still be here, counting the change the customers left me and staring at the clock above the stovetop. I will go home only to come back four hours later. I will wish I was anywhere but here, hoping one day I would be the one to walk into the breakfast joint at 3 o’clock, allowing myself to see the city with rose-colored glasses.
By Megan Leahey5 years ago in Poets
Pink Clouds
When I was nearing my tenth birthday, my older sister Ingrid had just turned sixteen. She attended the school across the street from our church, where the teachers allowed you to call them by their first name and art was an integral part of the learning curriculum. I practically begged Ingrid to show me her homework, and after teasing me for being a dork, she would pull pages upon pages of beautiful sketches and colorful paintings out of her book bag. And once my mother had tucked me into sleep at night, I would wait to hear Ingrid give a kiss and hug to my parents before going into the room across from mine for bed. Some nights, it took what seemed like hours for my parent's to go to sleep, but every time they did I would tiptoe over to Ingrid's bedroom and crawl in her bed.
By Megan Leahey6 years ago in Families