passing the wound (scenes of a day)

The waitress leaned over the table, greeting the settling customers with emphatic politeness, as it's written in the booklet. Two men, probably father and son, directly stuck their arses on the chairs and their faces in the menu, without showing any anticipated pleasure at the idea of a full plate of juicy french fries and a grilled steak, the specialty of the place, without acknowledging the people around. Something was wrong, the young one appeared a bit shaky and distant, like if he was strongly refraining his eagerness to eat, pulling his chair away to escape the silent grasp of his father, and bending his back heavily to hide his awkward smirk between his knees. On the other end of the table was sitting an old man, a body of packed down fat with hardly no neck, scorn was frozen on his face, his only expression, no dynamism to change those traits, a statue of discontent, a crushing machine. The round, happy waitress all enclined to please never received one glance, and she managed to guess the order in the erratic mumbling and grunting. She left, the old man stayed imperturbable in the roughness, the vulgarity his life made him into. Poor men, poor girl, poor us.