Friday lunches are the best shift to work. Most of the staff is in a good mood, so they don’t irritate me. Getting every inch of the restaurant ready for the weekend makes time pass by quickly. Our weekly turkey burger specials draw in a sizable crowd; Maker’s Mark pairs excellently with it and is always an easy sale.
I’ve got a date tonight with someone I’ve been talking to online. That’s got me excited, even though we’re going to a pub. One letter away from pube.
But Tom’s been craving fish and chips, and he’s not the grossest person in the world.
After my weekly meeting with the managers is over, I amble into the kitchen to check on things. Since it’s between lunch and dinner, Leon is the only cook on duty. A few tickets dangle next to him.
“Hey, Leon. How’s the medium classic? Time’s running a bit long on this ticket.”
“Sorry, Phil. Kelley took forever to get the mesquite for me.”
“Slacking off, huh? I’ll have a word with him.”
I study the next ticket. Two bison burgers, no onions. It’s hard not to think of Tyson. What he’s up to right now? Haven’t played with him in a few days.
Not that it really matters. No point in thinking about him or associating him with my bison burgers, which may or may not be older than him. He’s got to be at least in his twenties, right? He couldn’t possibly be a teenager.
Stop it. Focus on Tom.
This date could be fun. Tom uses emojis in his messages. Means he’s pretty hip for a lawyer in his early fifties. That stark, white goatee against his spray-tanned skin is kind of sexy too.
Five o’clock rolls around, though, and my mild enthusiasm shrivels to a disgusted horror when Tom insists we sit at the bar.
We’re the only guests here. Literally. We have our choice of any table, and Tom wants the goddamn bar.
“No better spot in any joint to sit and eat than at the bar,” he says.
Not true in any place that gives a crap about their guests. The seating in my restaurant has been optimized for maximum comfort and privacy in an open environment. Every table has a view out the window or is strategically placed next to one of the many art decorations installed through the building. No booths, fuck that. Not a single seat is next to a bathroom, utility closet, or the kitchen.
Eating at the bar should only be for people who need to get in and out real quick. Tom must be securing an escape route. Someone ought to punch him for this shady move, and I nominate myself.
But I quietly agree with him, trying not to wreck the date too early in the evening. There’s still potential in him. He could be the love of my life.
Except the way he curls his upper lip when he smiles reminds me of Curtis.
Curtis used to give me that look before going down on me. Like he was doing me a favor.
No. I got to stop thinking about Curtis. I’m with Tom now. Not Douchelord.
Tom. Who is as exciting as plain, white bread.
We discuss our jobs and the road construction downtown over fish and chips. Real riveting material. The stuff written in romance novels. I douse my dinner in vinegar since I’m already decimating my taste buds with fried cod, and I stick with club soda to drink since I suspect I’m driving home immediately after this.
Tom surprises me by ordering a second gin on the rocks after we’re done eating. He winks at me.
“Get something nice to relax you. We can take a taxi home.”
Someone should give me a medal for not laughing in his face. He’s funny if he thinks I’m actually attracted to him. He’s decent looking, I’ll give him that. But I need more.
The best bourbon doesn’t always come in a pretty package.
“I’ve got an early morning tomorrow at work. I really need to get going.” I slide my credit card over to the bartender. “Let me buy you this drink to apologize.”
Tom purses his lips together and nods, a slight frown stitched in between his wiry eyebrows. He’s not going to argue with me. No one really does anymore. I’ve mastered the art of keeping my chin up and my stare steady when talking to someone.
I’m the king of liars, too, when I need to be. I never work Saturdays or Sundays. Perks of being your own boss include setting your own schedule.
It’s necessary to be good at hiding the truth when you work in sales and customer service. There’s a lot of value in fibbing the details of why a person’s burger is taking so long to come out when the truth is your kitchen guys got too fucking high to cook anything more complex than instant ramen. And no one can put a price on assuring a regular how cute their newborn, wrinkly pink baby is.
Plus I have to pretend my sister’s husband is a great guy on a weekly basis.
My heart is coated in steel.
Getting home relaxes me more than any drink could. I fling my striped tie across the room and kick off my shoes on the way to the kitchen. In record time, I pour a drink and fire up Protect Earth At All Costs.
Relief washes over me when I see Tyson’s online. At least I won’t have the worst team in the world tonight. I’m not sure if he’s gotten any better in the game, but he’s good at following orders.
He invites me to join his party before I can get my headset on. Tyson must be pleased to see me too. It’s nice to have this strange sort of camaraderie.
“Hey, Phil, glad we can play tonight. Go Team Phison!”
Team what?
“I don’t usually have Fridays off, so this is sweet,” he continues. “So many people are playing.”
“Uh-huh. You going to find a match for us or what?”
“Oh, sorry. What do you want to play?”
I roll my eyes, the corner of my mouth curving upward. Who’s considerate in a multiplayer FPS? “Doesn’t matter to me. I just want to shoot some aliens.”
We chat during matches and in between them. Mostly about upgrades Tyson’s gotten and achievements he’s unlocked. But the conversation starts bleeding over to the errands Tyson needs to run this weekend and plans with his roommate.
He’s the sort of guy who needs to talk all the time with everyone about everything. It’s a quality I don’t think anyone should have, but Tyson’s genuine affection tickles my ribcage. He keeps trying to bring our various team members into our discussion, and he pouts when they don’t respond to his question.
Sometime in the middle of a “Defend The Flag Holder” mission, while Tyson takes the scenic route to our base, curiosity consumes me. Probably because I’m two drinks deep and pleasantly buzzed for once instead of annoyed. But it couldn’t possibly hurt to learn more about him.
“Say, Tyson, where’re you from? Georgia?”
He chuckles. “Did my accent give it away? You’re right. Athens. What about you, Phil?”
“Massachusetts.”
The screen flashes green after Tyson plants the flag in our base, causing him to erupt in a high-pitched cheer. The screeching doesn’t bother me though. I’m distracted by the memory of our last conversation. Are his eyes as green as our victory screen?
“Hey, Tyson. Did you ever figure out what color your eyes are?”
“Huh? Oh. No, I didn’t.”
Good grief. He’s pretty hopeless.
“Send me a pic, and I’ll tell you.”
A long and painful pause ensues. My cheeks burn, surely because of the alcohol. I shift in my chair and rub the back of my neck.
“Is there a camera on the system? I don’t see one.”
Oh, God, he looked. He wants to send me a picture. This isn’t the whisky making my head spin. I’m experiencing, uh, what’s that emotion called?
Embarrassment.
He exits the game, pushing me to new levels of uncomfortable. We’re still in a party so we can keep talking to each other.
“Message me your phone number,” Tyson says. “I’ll text it to you.”
My brain says no, but my traitorous fingers send him my number in no time flat. What’s the worst that could happen? He can’t steal my identity with it or anything. I think.
I’m not doing a lot of thinking right now, am I?
I exit the game as well and glance down at my iPhone. Waiting. Waiting.
My phone lights up, alerting me to a new text from an unknown number. Hardly a second passes before I open it.
He has small, beautiful brown eyes.
Tyson’s definitely in his late 20’s. Can’t quite gauge his height since it’s an awkward bathroom selfie, but he’s a bit soft around the edges. Probably has a beer belly. Light, sun-kissed skin. Dark, shaggy hair. Hasn’t shaved in a few days. Didn’t bother taking off his headset.
Goofiest fucking smile ever. And I kind of like it.
“They’re brown,” I finally say.
“What kind of brown?”
“Christ, I don’t know. Like coffee with a splash of milk.”
“Hey, I like coffee. That’s pretty nice,” Tyson says. “Where’s my pic?”
“What?”
“You should send me a pic now.”
I need to be a lot drunker to send anyone a picture of me besides the one I have up on my dating profile. It took me two weeks of photography sessions with my friend Meredith to settle for a shot that doesn’t make me cringe.
“Come on, Phil,” he half-sings. “Don’t be shy. We’re friends.”
“I’m a wicked mess right now.”
“So am I! Come on. Just one pic. I’m dying to see what you look like now.”
This guy.
“Fine,” I grumble. “Hold on.”
I’m too sore to get out of my recliner, so I use my phone as a mirror and smooth my hair and button my shirt up. I snap a few pics and take far too many seconds deciding on which one looks best. My nieces do this for hours whenever I see them, and I don’t know how they haven’t pulled their hair out from the stress.
Only one picture is semi-decent and hides the age spots along my left temple, so that’s the one I send Tyson. My mouth and nose decide breathing is overrated while I wait for him to open it.
“Oh, hey, I didn’t know you were older,” he says. “Fifty?”
“Add five years to that.”
A sharp ache rips through my chest.
“Dang, Phil, you look so good. You’re twice my age, but you look like a Hollywood star.”
His tone is warm, sincere. Comforting.
So Tyson’s 27 or 28. Thinks I’m handsome for some reason. And he probably means it.
It’s the nicest thing I’ve heard all day. My heart pounds in my ears.
“You’re not bad yourself, Tyson.”