On the walk to work she picks two frangipanis and holds them loosely in her hand. She unlocks the door, threads her way through the tables and stacked chairs and tries not to scare the prep cook when she enters the kitchen. She hangs up her jacket, grabs an empty water glass and goes to the restrooms. She checks that both are clean and in good supply. She fills the glass from a faucet, drops a blossom in the water, and places the other in her hair that’s piled and pinned high on her head, still wet from the shower.
She leaves the glass at the cash register and goes back to the kitchen to count her float. She stocks the drinks, checks the napkins and chopsticks. Fills the chili garlic sauce containers. Writes up the daily special on the chalkboard. Flirts with the line cooks as they amble in. They are young and tattooed and some are hungover.
The day kicks off.
Once the door opens, it never seems to close. It’s like the first person to step to the till spontaneously births an entire line-up of humans from their back. Sorta like in Gremlins.
Everything is scrawled onto order pads and handed to the expeditor. Teriyaki with tofu. Spicy peanut with chicken, no cilantro. Singapore cashew curry with prawns and rice. A special. A special, no cilantro. Insults and jibes for the cooks. “Try not to burn it.” “Donny, you’re out of your element.” And then a string of names are shouted into the restaurant. “Lisa! Tom Yum!” “Jorge! Black bean!” Loonies and toonies make the tip jar ring like a bell.
The blur of lunch becomes a lull. It’s time for her to eat.
She writes out an order and gives it to him. She reads her book at the bar. He sets a bowl in front of her.
“Why did you give me that note in front of everyone? They all saw.”
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