Fire

*

“Oven roasted Poptart. We should add that to the new menu.” E.J. places the dry, square pastry onto the hotplate, normally used for filets or ribeyes, and slides it into the open brick oven. The frosting that resembled kindergarten craft past begins to glister and soften. The smell of roasting strawberries drifts into my nostrils.

“Yeah but would it be a regular menu item, a bar menu item or dessert?” I wonder half aloud. E.J. gives me his typical what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about look. He doesn’t like me. I’ve learned not to take it personally.

*

The little shelves are occupied by bags of trail mix from random health food stores, sandwiches wrapped in butcher paper, plastic water bottles, cardboard boxes of tea with depictions enchanting faraway lands and disposable Tupperware filled with mysteries brought from home, rustic and wanting to be shared.

Greg grabs a fork from my hand that I just finished polishing with the yellow cloth. He holds it up to the light to inspect it for watermarks or other prints, the light glinting of the prongs of the utensil then brings it centimeters from his nose dramatically but I laugh because I know he’s teasing. He points it at me.

“You are lucky, miss, that this fork is so pristinely polished otherwise I would not let it come close to touching this culinary masterpiece I’m about to consume.” He whips out a container of what looks like mac and cheese.

“Oh yeah? Is that some 4 star shit in there?” He leans against the counter next to me and pulls the lid off the container with exaggerated movements. Plunging his for into the Velveeta mac and cheese shell pasta, gooey with orange froth he places the fork into his mouth and cleans ever last bit of liquid from it.

“Mmmmmmmm…Velveeta with truffle oil.”

“Greg, are you shitting me? Let me taste!”

That was so like him.

*

Brad approaches me with his cautious but calm hesitation, a demeanor that saunters inside of my own body but never presents itself. I think that’s why I’m always a little bit brighter and warmer around him. He clutches the metal cup in his grip, a large tumbler pocked with scratches and dents. All of the chefs use them. I quench their thirsts when their cups run dry.

Andy- water with a little ice and no straw, sometimes lemon

Milo- ginger ale, lime wedges and four straws

Forest- Pepsi, sometimes soda water with a squeeze of lime juice (I put an extra one on the side for him)

Mike- Sprite

Brad- diet Pepsi a little ice and three straws

Pedro-ice water with lemon

Norm- ice water plain no straws

Brian- Pepsi no ice

Drew- sprite one lime

Sean- sprite no ice

David- sprite ice and 2 straws

EJ-sprite and a few cubes

I’ve assumed my position at the polishing station surrounded by color-coded glass racks; my back is to the kitchen. The aura of a chef coat clad body approaches from behind me, a sensation like electric static on the backs of my arms.

Brad clutches the cup between his bulky palms the same way I’ve seen him handle slabs of meat. His filets were flawless tonight, looking as if they were made from some fine material instead of muscle of an animal. Perspiring and seeping juice only slightly to give it an engorged plumpness to the cuts, sliced in such a way that the pieces appear cut by a laser and not by his swift hand. Though I don’t eat red meat the sight of it was enough to make me sweat a little.

He gazes at me sheepishly; enough to make me blush and question if that flush is from him or the heat of the kitchen.

“Halle?” His eyes never leave my face. He can be shy but that’s what I like about him. He never averts his gaze.

“Yes dear?” My lips can’t resist the smile he brings on. Never. Fails.

“Could I bother you for a diet Pepsi?” The briefest hint of his own personal smile barely escapes onto his mouth. I like that this is has become a ritual every time we work the same shift. Down to a time frame, first 5 minutes before we open then again a little over halfway through the shift. I can predict it and always make sure I’m in the kitchen then, so I don’t miss it, so he doesn’t pass off the task to someone else. But part of me likes to think he wouldn’t ask anyone but me anyway. “If you’re not busy,” he will add.

“I’m never too busy for you sweetheart and you know you never bother me. Of course I will.” He makes my cheeks hurt from grinning so hard.

*

Travis gives me the kind of looks that leaves a woman perplexed but feverish and blushing.

“There she is.” His voice is a dash gall blended with a hint of confidence and intimacy. I can nearly taste it in the air when we talk. Olive oil and brown sugar, I think, addicted to his Portland accent, a note of something unfamiliar but just there enough to notice west coast sass. He intrigues me endlessly with his decision to move far away from there to a city that is gasping from breath. He told me over a glass of wine he poured for me during after hours, red he guessed and I told him he knew me too well already.

“Why does any guy do something drastic?”

“Not fair,” I point at him over the rim of the glass, “I asked you.

“Well consider this a switcheroo.” He raises an eyebrow, one of his mannerisms I can’t get enough of.

“A girl”

“Bingo” He swipes at the counter with a rag. “Six years and counting.”

He told me after another glass that I should never compensate or settle, that I had more going for me than most. Somehow after knowing him only a week, I believed this more from him than I had from my best friend or my parents. I still do.

“Trav, it’s usually the girl that does shit like that.”

“Yeah well I’m not most asshole guys. I mean don’t get me wrong I can be an asshole but not 98% of the time, ya know?”

“Somehow I knew that 5 days ago.”

I held on fast after that. And two months later, between stuffing blue cheese into pitted olives and squeezing every last drip out of oranges he said, “Hey you know you make this place more bearable.” I barley caught the sentence as he paced from one end of the bar to the other, setting up for service, grabbing black cocktail napkins and menus. He does that; slips in discrete compliments, maybe hoping you aren’t paying attention. I just smile when he does that, knowing he’s looking at me even if I’m not looking at him. He’s like a brother now, shoulder punching and flicking my wrist or elbowing me in the ribs. Somehow I think he would stick up for me if need be. I’d do the same and then some for him.

*