Empty Words

Angel

After I tend to my customers, I walk over to Damian’s table to clear away his dishes to ready it for the next guests, only to discover he left sixty dollars in cash and a piece of paper with his phone number. I tuck the money and paper into my apron, not wanting to think too much of it, but a little irked he insisted on paying. Is it so much to ask to pay for what I owe him and call ourselves even? I don’t want to live in this never-ending cycle of owing him for something.

I survive the rest of my shift, but by the time I walk home, I’m running on what’s left of a pack of skittles and too much espresso. Genie needs a walk, and since the forecast is calling for rain, I decide to take her out right away and try to beat the bad weather. It’s about time we got a storm to cut through the humidity we’ve been suffering through. Hopefully my hair will shrink back to normal size.

When I return home, I take the rolled-up piece of paper with Damian’s phone number and stare at it. I have no intention of calling him because that seems desperate. While I do find him interesting, the thought of going on a date is overwhelming. I’m not a fan of the fake personalities people wear on first dates to impress another person. That’s not me, and in the past, my not-fake personality hasn’t won me any second dates. Not only that, but I don’t want to go out with him, feeling like I owe him. So dinner together will never happen until we wipe the slate clean.

I can appreciate in his mind he was trying to be a gentleman, but there are acceptable and unacceptable ways to do that. Open doors, by all means. Pick up the tab? Sure, but it’s not expected every time. Hold my arm when I’m trying to walk across cobblestones in stilettos? Yes, please. But between his orders the day he dropped me off at Dina’s, and his habit of overpaying for mediocre food, his gentlemanly ways leave a lot to be desired.

Yet, here I am, lying in bed at the end of a long day, desiring to see him again.

I worked the entire weekend and, given that it’s summer, I had a great weekend for tips. No one else left me $1000, but I’m not complaining. More importantly, Mr. Harrington didn’t take issue with my customer service, so I’m still employed.

Lately I’ve been having a nagging feeling to pursue more options in my field, though. Maybe it’s time to look outside the city. I can apply for freelance gigs and work in my free time to build up my portfolio. My degree in graphic design has largely been unused aside from a few art pieces I made for my condo, which I only made because I was too cheap to buy anything. That’s not going to pay the bills, and waitressing isn’t something I want to build my career on, either. It’s been great for the past few years, but I’m ready to pursue something that sparks some passion—delivering food that barely meets edibility requirements doesn’t.

Until now, I’ve hesitated to pursue a job in the graphic design field because marketing is a shady industry and I couldn’t justify willingly participating in some of the questionable practices used. So if anyone calls me back for an interview, I’ll just have to tell them where I stand and hope they’ll appreciate an employee who has a strict moral code.

One can only hope.

After three long days of rain, I return to work on Tuesday, grateful for the sunshine. My hair is being cooperative and no longer feels as if it’s trying to overtake my head, so that’s always a plus.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about the possibility of seeing Damian today. Or maybe he’ll be upset I didn’t call him, so he’ll find somewhere else to eat. I couldn’t blame him for that, because there are plenty of better options around and he can obviously afford to eat in a nicer spot. That realization leaves a funny feeling swelling in my chest, because he could eat somewhere else, but he came back to see me under an actual risk of intestinal distress.

As I walk into Harvest, my boss, Mr. Harrington, who is very much a hands-on owner, with bad breath and no concept of personal space, greets me at the door. “Good morning, Miss Blake. We’re expecting quite a bit of foot traffic to come through in about an hour on account of some events happening, so be on your best behaviour.”

Most people would smile and appease their boss. I reply with a neutral expression that hopefully relays my feelings about the matter. “I’m always on my best behaviour, Mr. Harrington. We just disagree on what that entails.”

“Miss Blake,” he says, a tone of warning in his voice, “let people order for themselves and don’t cause any problems. It’s really a simple task. A chimpanzee could wait tables.”

I’m not going to touch that one because I still need this job. If I had the tiniest bit of confidence I’d be able to find a job in my field, I may feel otherwise. Must. Resist. I take a breath, destroying my reputation as queen of the clap back, but it’s not worth it today.

When I enter the kitchen, Hannah is nowhere to be found. I check the schedule and today is her day off. She worked yesterday, so that makes sense, but I hate being here without her. Not only because she’s the only one who can turn out decent food, but because she’s one of the few people I can talk to who doesn’t get offended by everything I say.

I greet the line cooks on duty, suppressing a groan because each one of them possesses the most lascivious looks when they stare back at me. I don’t know how Hannah works in here with them. They’re lucky they haven’t caught a frying pan to the side of the head if they look at her the same way.

Pushing away the image of Hannah weaponizing cast iron, I head back into the dining room to get myself prepared for an influx of guests.

Influx doesn’t describe the deluge we face. There was a lineup out the door for three straight hours and never an empty table to be seen. More dishes than I can count had to be sent back for one reason or another. Each time it’s embarrassing, and I feel guilty charging people for food that they barely choked down. Mr. Harrington is very anti-complimentary meal, though. Probably because if he had to comp a meal each time it was sent back, he’d be shut down within a week. Any logical person would do something about that, but Mr. Harrington is content having onetime guests who never return and leave scathing online reviews.

Speaking of guests who haven’t returned, Damian didn’t come in today, and I wonder if it’s because he had a finite amount of time for his lunch break and was deterred by the crowd, or if he stayed away because I haven’t called him.

I finish up the last of my tasks and walk out into the warm summer air.

The humidity has nothing to do with the air being zapped from my lungs.