A Polish Breakfast

At the restaurant where I am temping, there's a Polish gal who started working there about a month, or so, ago. I think she's very cute. I say hello to her, regularly, in Polish, but I can't spell the word I say. She seems pleased that I do this. She always sits alone at breakfast, so this morning, I went over to her and asked if I could join her. She welcomed me, so I sat with her. I asked her where she lives and if she lives with family. She lives in a town near the restaurant and said she doesn't live with family, but with a friend. Data acquisition algorithms were in effect and intel analysis says it's unlikely she's married, given her answer.
I asked here where in Poland she's from. I can't spell her answer, but it's near to Germany. I asked her if it's good that where she's from is near Germany. "Polish people hate Germans," she said. I guess they still haven't forgiven World War II.
"More than you hate Americans," I asked?
"Yes," she said, nodding in the affirmative.
At about that time, Chef Anthony, having noticed that I was sitting with her, came over to try to mess things up. "Joseph's a stalker," he said to her. She gave him a puzzled look, not comprehending what "stalker" means. Her English isn't that fluent, yet, which worked to my benefit, I suppose.
I turned to Chef Anthony. "Don't mess this up for me," I implored.
Undeterred, he told her that the police check up on me. What a joker. Still, she didn't get what he was on about. He went away and I explained, "he doesn't like me talking to you."
"That's not your problem," she said. "That's his problem." That sounded like a good response. She rolled her eyes over Chef Anthony and said he talks too much. We both laughed at that.
Returning to the subject of places, I asked her if she'd ever been to America. She said no. "Is that because you don't like Americans?" Typical of me, I ask a question I expect her to disagree with.
"No, I don't. They're fat and have Bush as the leader, and want benzine...petrol, and think they are so great." She gave a disgusted shrug. I wasn't expecting THAT answer. She looked at me sweetly and asked, "so where are you from? You don't sound like from England."
"Guess," I said.
"South Africa?" Huh? What brought that up?
I gave her my most deadpan, poker-faced look. "America," I said. In the moment that followed, I kept expecting to hear Homer Simpson say, "Doh!"
She seemed slightly embarrassed, but asked me what part. I told her I was from New York. Of course, I couldn't let her off the hook that easily, could I? "I'm really glad you told me what you think of Americans...BEFORE I told you I am from America," I said. She smiled nervously at that. I smiled back at her, warmly. I told her I like the way her hair hangs down across the right side of her face. She seemed a bit more embarrassed and tucked it back under her hat, explaining that it blocks her eye. "It looks cute," I said. She blushed and looked down at her plate, then smiled a bit. Soon, it was time to go back to work. We walked back, together. Strangely, she insisted that I walk in front of her. I need to pluck up my courage to ask her out.