I think I saw a vampire. Last Saturday. At a baked potato joint.
OK, just let me kid myself for a bit. We are a fair bit away from Transylvania. And even more fairer bit away from Phoenix, Arizona and Forks, Washington, where Belle, Edward and their batty pals bloody their fangs. Warsaw’s nightlife has perked up a fair bit in the recent years but rapacious thrills aren’t on the itinerary…yet.
But she, the waitress at the potato bar, had a complexion so pale, so pearly as if she’s was drained of blood. And what big eyes she had. Not the bushy, wolverine type, but the sweet, innocent scanners Japanese manga give to their damsels in distress. Had she shimmered forward to catch the cutlery holder I tipped over accidentally that would have freaked me out totally. Crash the forks and knives did and she wasn’t flustered.
I don’t know how often she clocks in but I can tell you where she works. The baked potato specialty eatery is called Groole.
Related posts: Potato Issues.