At Work

by Thalia

She's smiling. Nothing unusual about that, really, because impressions are everything and in general, she loves this job. It's not her restaurant, but for the time being, it will do, and her spirit shines through in the subtle things. Every glass of water has a perfect slice of lemon and the wine-red linen napkins spill, petal-like, from empty wineglasses. The lime wedges garnishing the seafood platter form the shape of a rose.

He's become a regular customer every Thursday night because SHE works then, and he merely catches glimpses of her because she's everywhere at once. The wine he's drinking is expensive-- a rich French Merlot with accents of berries and oak, from a particularly good year, and he imagines what her lips would taste like through wine and truffles and tiramisu. His waiter comes, bringing his entree, and he smiles at the neat arrangement of dauphinoise potatoes and chives green as her eyes, and he knows that she had a hand in making his meal. It's gratifying.

She rushes past, towards another table where the patron-- a pinched, elderly woman in a ridiculous fur stole-- shrilly proclaims that her soup is too salty, and the smile vanishes as she tries to placate the harridan, and he feels oddly frustrated. He pauses in his meal to watch her anxiously, and after she promises to give the complainer dessert on the house, she rushes off again to make arrangements for that, and he watches her slim, elegant figure disappear through doors leading to the kitchens.

He imagines what she must be like in there-- far more casual, laughing with the others and fluttering about. It is her domain, and everything is neat and busy and perfect. She arranges meals on porcelain plates with dexterous hands and gently teaches an apprentice the correct way to whisk meringue batter, and childishly dips a finger into a bowl of sauce to test its taste. If he could, he'd follow her and cup her face in his hands, trapping her fingers with his as she wipes away sweat.

He is done with his meal and nearly finished with his cherries jubilee when she unexpectedly stops at his table, that frank, friendly smile in place upon her flawless features, her hands clasped in front of her. "Are you having a nice meal, sir?"

He wants to stand up and slide those wayward mahogany curls falling out of her ponytail behind her ears and tell her that she should never call him 'sir', but he settles for returning her smile. "Splendid," he tells her. "You're the best thing about this place."

She blushes at his compliment and doesn't really understand all the implications, but then again, for the time being, he's just another patron. "Well, thanks," she says sweetly. "Just remember to call me if you need anything, all right?"

He nods, and she moves off, throwing another smile over her shoulder in farewell. He pays the bill, leaving a generous tip, and she's back in the kitchen by the time he leaves. There is a pink rose lying on his napkin, next to his empty dessert plate, and as he makes his way down the street, he laughs a bit at his own foolishness and wonders if she'd realize that it was meant for her. She seemed like the type of girl who would like pink roses.