Kitchen Sounds

Halle

Pedro! I've been worrying about you..how's the foot?

5:05pm

Pedro

a lot better, thanks

5:05pm

Halle

Good I'm glad

5:05pm

Pedro

heard you weren't too hot, how've you been?

5:05pm

Halle

sick

fever

5:05pm

Pedro

...feeling too hot

that sucks

feeling better though?

5:06pm

Halle

Today was the first day I've actually left my apartment since Monday

but Frank sent me home and told me to take another night off

yeah just trying to get my energy and my voice back haha

5:06pm

Pedro

yeah I hear ya. I've been on the couch and Vicodin out all week, not fun

5:07pm

Halle

Cabin fever is about to set in..I don't mind being lazy but dude..I can't spend another day inside

5:07pm

Pedro

I hear ya, no I hate being lazy

5:07pm

Halle

How did you burn yourself??? God you poor thing

5:08pm

Pedro

Doing short ribs, the liquid fell n foot, ill tell at work there’s a lot to it

but I've doing a lot work in the comp, I'm doing the entire recipe book for roast, so that’s where I'm at right now

5:08pm

Halle

It went through your shoe?! That is insane

5:08pm

Pedro

yep

5:09pm

Halle

nice! I want a copy

5:09pm

Pedro

could’ve been a lot worse if it wasn’t for the shoe

5:09pm

Halle

I can’t even imagine..I'm glad your ok..It’s going to heal and everything? no serious permanent damage?

5:10pm

Pedro

nope

its healing it just burn like these take their time u know

but hopefully ill be back next week

anyways... im gonna let you go got finish this recipe book, still got like 80 more recipes to type for Monday.

5:11pm

Halle

ok get better soon dear and you know if you need anything im your girl

5:11pm

Pedro

be well, and take your vitamins, hope u feel better too

thanx

5:11pm

Halle

will do Pedro see you soon

*

“Halle do you dress up just for us kitchen guys?” I like that EJ talks to me more, even if I’m unsure whether he is criticizing me or just giving me a hard time.

“Always.” I wink.

“Hey, uh, Halle, your shirt is falling off your shoulder there…”

“It’s supposed to, Forest.”

“Just trying to help.”

“Yeah, yeah, you just wanted an excuse to touch my shoulder.”

“You’re right…here let me help you…”

*

“Hey kid how you feeling’?”

“Better than I was.” But the words barely make it out through strained, scratchy vocal chords. Travis’s face folds into an awe-you-poor-thing-you-lost-your-voice look. “It’s all your fault.” I mouth, pointing at him with my fork, now stabbed with a ripe grape tomato. Travis holds his hands up in defense.

“Dude we didn’t make out that much, totally not my fault.” I smirk and slide the envelope I have for him down to where he is slouched against the granite bar. The turquoise envelope glides easily over to him resting at his fingertips.

“Happy Birthday.” Manages to squeeze out of my voice box in little gasps. I shrug and finish, “I had to,” before he can say anything. But he doesn’t just holds that smile there, the one I think he keeps secretly for me tucked into the pocket of his hoodie.

*

“Halle, I don’t want to hear a word out of you today…not one.” Andy can’t fool me, trying to press his face into seriousness but cracking a smile only half a second after he finishes the sentence. The feverish haze has just barely left me and stolen my voice along with it, but not one more day in my apartment, pajamas, soup and movies could keep me from that kitchen. I missed them after a week and it felt heavenly to be back, even if they were busting my balls…so to speak…

“Oh hush up!” My voice came out in barely a squeaky whisper instead of the yell I intended.

“What? I’m sorry I cant hear you…what did you say?” Andy holds his hand behind the crook of his ear. “You’re going to have to be louder than that if you want to get out attention.” I slap him with the yellow polishing cloth and go back to helping the boys set up for service.

“Seriously, Hal, we missed you...how are you feeling?” I flash a thumbs up sign.

“Good. Stay fucking healthy!”

*

I can feel my phone vibrate in my apron pocket. Texting is forbidden in the kitchen but I discretely hit the buttons in the darkness of the fabric and scan the screen quickly before Andy catches me. It’s Nolan.

“Hey lady! I heard you were quite sick. Are you ok?!”

*

“Seriously thanks for everything you do…sometimes I wonder what we did before you got here…and don’t ever think I’m yelling at you…you’re the last person I would yell at.”

*

They sneak little bites and nibbles, and sometimes I wonder what they would taste like if I were to touch my mouth to theirs,

*

He seemed genuinely hurt...his soft, handsome features folding into an expression of dismay and concern. My chest constricts and suddenly I wish I could take back all of the negative feelings I ever had about him. Because, in reality, my jealousy is what drives me. I want what he has. I let him down..that is my fear..what drives my intimidation now...I so badly want us not just to work together but to be friends..and my guilt is driving me mad..smells like stale grease and salt left over from a packed house.

I let him down..I couldn't live up to the task of becoming a full-fledged server in under a month and cost the restaurant, and himself...he told me months ago..

"Through this process I will be nit picking through everything you do, I will be watching every move not because I’m looking for things you are doing wrong but because I want you to be the best you can be, I want all of the things I teach you to become automatic. I’ll tell you a story. When I first started working as a waiter I had a pretty big head. I hated that someone was constantly coming up to me telling me every little thing I was doing wrong. At first I blew it off because I was young. So there was just one day where I decided I wanted to be the best, and that meant fixing a tweaking all of those little things, even if they seemed unimportant.”

And from the beginning all I ever wanted was for him to be proud of me...to see how much I respect him and want to learn from him..and now I feel like a disappointment...hovering in his shadow...pulse quickening every time he comes around a corner.*

But I like him most when he makes me laugh...I like him when he reminds me of...me...

*

Yoga has made my body writhe and burn in places I have forgotten existed. The plates make my wrists throb and I can’t help but bitch about it because it makes me feel better.

“Yeah, girl had a hard night…a longggg night.” Dan’s voice drips in sarcasm. I pause and eye him over the expo station.

“Yeah and you just wish it was you.” I retort.

“OHHHHHHHH BURN! SHE GOT YOU!” I smile smugly.

*

Beautiful and refined with a touch of madness

*

Wait wait you’re leaving too?

No Sean

Where are you going?!

Nowhere!

Oh ok oh god don’t scare me like that. Who would make my fry cups? Because no one else makes a mean fry cup like you.

*

They come and go, new faces replace old, the ghosts of past line cooks continue to linger. Sometimes I swear I can hear Brian yell some vulgarity that makes me laugh despite it; sometimes I swear I see Jeff disappear around the corner. And now Dan is leaving and I am afraid of forgetting about him. Part of me wishes I could. The other part wants to cry.

“ Yeah dude I am stoked. Ill be around the tip of Idaho at this sweet resort, working under a buddy of mine I graduate with from the CIA.” I make a little extra noise retrieving pig shaped plates for him, slamming them onto the metal station where he places finished dishes during service.

“We don’t talk about you leaving while I’m in the kitchen. We just don’t.” My voice carried further than I would have liked as the kitchen becomes silent at the wrong time. The boys hear.

“Awwwwwwwww!!!!” They all echo in unison. Dan turns red and smiles. I bolt.

*

Chris is leaving too, accepted a job position as an engineer for some small company. It is only when someone leaves when you realize how much their company, and presence, means to you. A little glowing ball of light in the palm of your hand. We all see different sides of each other here and most have never seen the side of him that I have. Deceptively witty and cheeky, an indi film humor.

“It might be my favorite food of all time,” he says calmly, as a matter of fact without looking at me. Just nods his head slowly as if agreeing with himself. “But I really want to get Invisiline so those little shreds of meat don’t get suck in the spaces between my teeth. Especially this one place in my back molars.” He taps two fingers to his jaw line. “Then I could really enjoy jerky to its fullest potential.” Laura and I pause to gather each other’s reactions then break out in wide smiles.

“Fucking adorable, this one.” I ruffle his hair.

*

Metal against metal clashes and cracks against the atmosphere of the kitchen as Kenny pours a giant plastic tub of silverware into the polishing bin. It seems with sanitation like a plate of food fresh off the burners. I cringe.

“Fuck that sound is going to haunt me for the rest of my life. I am going to wake up in the middle of the night screaming because of nightmares about bins of steaming silverware.” I shift my attention from the prongs of the fork I am polishing and look at Chris.

“Good god now I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight.” A hand jolts me and shakes me violently. I know its Greg without even turning around.

“Babe, polish the silverware, don’t make love to it!.”

“Dude, I don’t make love…”

*

Disclaimer...Claiming Idenity

I suppose there is no "right" time for and explanation of an artists work. And so I mentioned oh-so long ago, I hate explanations. But we all have bad days, we all have good days. Simple as that. The truth is the things I write here are through my eyes and no one else's. And though my experiences are completely transformative depending on who reads them, this much I know is true. I would not choose to be anywhere else in life. The people I'm surrounded by every day have changed me for the better. They are the most talented, eccentric, beautiful, hilarious, bold, brash, charming, raunchy group I have the honor of working with. And I love them. They have all become pieces of my soul, have breathed life into me, have saved me. I owe them everything. This is life. This is real. This is how I see it through my window.

"My Boys"

*

Those ChefsWear pants bug the shit out of me. I want to strut to the back of the line, pull them up so only ¼ of his ass is showing instead of ½, and tie his black apron there so tight those pants don’t creep downwards again. This is a kitchen, not an MTV rap video. Plus, I like to think that ass is a little bit, well, mine, especially if I’ve seen more of it than most of these people.

“Halle, stop staring at my ass. I mean, I know it’s nice but, c’mon, a little digression.”

“You wish I was looking at your ass!” I yell over to him, whipping around to focus on buffing silverware again. But I know I’ll be sneaking glimpses of those hips jutting just above the checkered waist for the rest of service.

Greg strides into the kitchen and leans against the counter, next to me. His brow furrows.

"Halle, don’t make love to it, polish it!” The yellow rag becomes warm from friction under my quick fingers

“Dude, I don’t make love. I’m passionate and aggressive.” He cracks up. I love the way his eyes crinkle.

“You’re silly, boo.”

“I love that you and Laura call me boo. It makes me feel special.”

“Well-,” he pauses and looks at me with those white blue eyes, “you are special.”

*

In all circumstances, insert raunchiness.

“You know my motto, here it’s standard conversation, everywhere else it’s sexual harassment! And you know the saying ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas?’ That doesn’t apply in this case…ever.” Norm retrieves the oval plate that flaunts 3 glistening; plumb kielbasas nestled atop steaming violet cabbage.

“Aw, look! A cute little nub on top!”

“And it’s oozing too!”

“Yeah, small and oozing kind of like something else I know.”

“Oh yeah and how would you know that? Have you seen it?”

“God, I hope not.”

*

“Hey Halle, can you keep an eye on things while I do some prep work in the back?

“Dude, you know you don’t ever have to ask.” Andy smiles the way an old friend does when nothing has to be spoken between you. I like to think we are heading in that direction.

“Uh oh! Watch out! Halle is behind the line!”

“You know it so don’t fuck it up boys.”

“That’s right, Hal, keep them on their toes girl!”

*

Laura is patient and beautifully serene, like aloe on skin; someone I feel as if I can tell all of my secrets to, even if they are small an insignificant or embarrassing. She would smile every time and make me feel like its ok to be me. I told her a few nights ago about my infatuation with “my boys.”

“They kill me,” I say over the rim of a Bordeaux glass, as if its circumference will conceal my words from the kitchen line. I don’t want those boys to know how I feel, my admiration seeping through my pores. “But it has to be the right combination of them. I love all of them, I really do.” They may give me shit but I thrive on it, nourishment for my exoskeleton that has taken 23 years for me to grow, only to be shed and restructured again.

*

That little tattered notebook lays on his bureau opened to the last few pages, running ink and dog eared, next to a foggy decanter that he snuck from the kitchen before it was able to be washed and polished. His room was cold on my naked skin as I searched for discarded garments. Now he makes lists on that notebook, and my skin is warm and dewy from the kitchen. I catch his eye and he looks away, busying himself with lists and I busy myself with polishing. His hands will work on me later.

*

“God, you guys are all going to kill me when I publish my book.”

“Well I’ll make myself a bit more interesting.” Mischievousness sprinkles the air. “Run this fucking food! I’m surprised that my reaction is to laugh, but perhaps it is because I know him now, that he can be stern but never harsh and stinging.

*

My legs ache from pattering around like a bumper car from one side the restaurant to the other and my mood has steadily sputtered into something a little less than pleasant. Joseph has already caught me shoveling a bowl of lentils into my mouth between platings and courses.

“Food running comes before eating, Halle.” He can’t even look up from his iPhone to address me.

“Halle, get back on your side of the line,” Andy snaps as he attempts to figure out which food goes to what table along with the appropriate seat. I find myself wishing I could tell him I’ve looked at those tickets more than he has tonight and could get the food out before it becomes mush. The cuts on my knuckles burn and tingle. Frustration makes the little severs throb in annoyance as if to scold me for fracturing too many glasses this week into shards sharp enough to slice through the tension pent up in the restaurant tonight. The plastic racks that hold freshly washed and steaming glassware have piled up as fast as I’ve emptied them and now they tower over me; red, blue, green, brown, like giant legos. Oscar asks me in his sweet broken English for another glass rack, light blue for wine glasses, so I empty one, hastily swiping the soggy cloth over the circumference of the bowl, stem and base in one swift movement, before I carry the rack back to the dishwashers station. I suppose, in hindsight, I knew the metal shelf where the racks sat above my head were filled with a soup of leftover food, soapy water and various forgotten beverages. Oscar only had certain moments between rushes to rinse the station clean of dishwater soup. But I wasn’t thinking about that festering liquid. My crankiness escaped through my fingers as I slammed the empty rack onto the shelf above my head. What I was not ready for was the backlash of that concoction into my face, mouth, and hair leaving me dripping with a foulness I could only taste on my taste buds, some of which I am sure were burnt off after the fact.

Everyone stopped in hesitation of what to do or say while I stood there, bangs dripping. Oscar halted amidst the dirty dishes, spray faucet still sputtering water onto the metal surface. Brian and Steve both snorted, knives in mid chop. Some “oh gods” and “uh ohs” floated around. But Frank’s response was the best.

“Well you’ve officially been christened with the dish tank money shot! You poor thing.” Andy tossed me a rag and I swiped at my face, giggling into the silliness that I embodied at that moment, a drown mouse, a damp bunny. I laughed and they laughed with me.

"The Dish Ran Away with the Spoon"

*

“Jesus enough salad there, Halle?”

“Not nearly enough. Hush, I like salad and this is not some shit store bought salad. You boys made it. So I will take as much fucking salad I want, cool?”

“Woah, feisty girl!” Brian turns to face the rest of the boys and puts his arms in front of his face as if to shield himself for protection. “Watch out guys, don’t get in the way of the girl and the salad tray! She may beat you with the tongs.”

“I like saaaalllaaddd” Mike, Brian and Jeff twitter in high pitched, fake feminine squeals.

“Ok. A. I don’t sound like that-“ Mike cuts me off.

“Oh, so you want to sound like a dude then?”

“No smartass. And B. Yes, I like salad so all of you can go fuck yourselves.” I stick my index finger in the dressing, lick it off and strut out of the kitchen with hoots and applause on my heels.

E-meal gives me a break from the teasing, which I know, or hope, at least, is out of brotherly love, or something like it.

*

“So can we do a ribeye without the garlic and shallot confit? This lady wants it done up like our filet, olive oil sea salt. “ Andy eyes me over the expo station with a “did-she-really-just-fucking-ask-me-that” look. He gives her a hasty “yeah” and turns his back to me, tossing handfuls of chopped carrots and celery into a giant cast-iron pot that I could probably climb into.

“Really? Did she really just ask me that?” Andy says as he turns back toward where I’m leaning against the espresso machine. “There are questions you just don’t ask. You know why?” I don’t try to respond. “Because it’s fucking common sense. Take notes, Halle. Don’t turn into one of these idiots.”

“It’s the same thing I say about men. I’ll be the best damn girlfriend, or in this case, server, because I know all the secrets.”

“Right on, girl, right on. “ He holds his hand near the large heat lamps, palm facing me. I go in for the kill and slap it vigorously.

*

“Milo, darling, do you have a Sharpie I can borrow?” He’s the sweetheart of all of them. Before he can answer I spot the red marker near his cutting board and snatch it up, telling him thank you before I grab the tape as well to label E-meal for the dishwashers. “Thanks doll!” I say.

“Damn, this girl just takes what she wants! Always take never giving.” Milo shakes his head and I play along.

“Oh, you have no idea. I love to give. I’m a giver of all things. You want something, all you have to do is ask babe. I aim to please.” The last few words I let linger as I exit through the swinging doors.

“I bet you do,” Mike chimes in as I enter through the doors, bringing back Milo’s ginger ale

“Hmm. I don’t recall you being a part of this conversation. Plus, you’re unavailable, so, not much I can do to help you out there.” The boys hoot and applaud as I wipe water from my hands onto my black apron.

*

“I like it when Halle works. She takes care of me, puts the plates and liners, and knows where everything is going. It’s perfect!” Norm plops a “Mickey Mouse” plate with steaming, oozing mac and cheese covered in garlic breadcrumbs onto the square plate I pulled for him.

“Just trying to make your job easier, love.” Norm is about to tell me where the plates of food are going but I stop him placing my two index fingers on my temples, scrunching my eyes dramatically. “Wait, wait, wait. Don’t tell me…B7.”

“Damn, girl got skill!”

“Nah, just psychic.”

*

I wonder why they are all here. How much they know. Where their interests lie. Random culinary facts are tossed in with quotes from movies or TV shows. Sometimes they baffle me and other times they steal my breath with their smoke, their vulnerability and intelligence. But most importantly, they make me laugh.

*

It took awhile for me to realize just how close our faces were on the expo line. I’ve memorized every crease of Andy’s face, the scar that runs a crossed the bridge of his nose, only slightly off color so you can see a faint shadow of where the stitching together of skin was. His large weathered features give him the appearance of some sculpture in an overgrown garden, secreting subliminal sexiness with the sweat on his brow.

*

James brings warmth to me that can de-thaw even my most melancholy of moods. I wish I could just take a spoonful for him every morning. His voice reminds me of olive oil and brown sugar, supple, deep and rich. Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to fall asleep next to him outside, next to an open fire, his tall, lanky stature, limbs wrapped around me like twisted sheets. He is playful, makes me laugh in subtle ways. Even after I leave work I can feel his fingertips on my bent elbow.

*

Sometimes I sprinkle chive on whipped potatoes, plate them, serve them up: Selling 6-4! I yell. My voice carries now. The boys like it when I’m loud.

I arrange hors d'vours in lines of 3, pop the left over’s into my mouth.

I make lists to restock the bar, the pantry, the walk in refrigerator, on blank order sheets, save them, make art out of them when I come home.

I squeeze oranges; cut lime and lemons into thirds the way Travis has taught me. I stuff olives until they are pregnant with blue cheese or anchovies. And the men I work with love my scent, even if it is a mix of salt, oil and brine of the earth. They pine for it.

“That’s my girl,” they say

“Who loves you?!” I say back. And I do.

Even if they aren’t sincere, I like to pretend they are.

*

“Halle, give me your shpeel about this hors d’vours.” I blush every time Andy puts me on the spot. He is good at catching me off-guard, knows my weaknesses. I clear my throat and feel the boys looking at me over their knife skills.

“Uh, ok so…this is an herb goat cheese with roasted red bell pepper on top, served on a mini crostini, perfect little combination of crunch and cream.” I point to the next platter. “And this is a braised short rib wonton with a little Sriracha dotted on top for a kick to your taste buds.” Now I’m on a roll. The kitchen doesn’t speak. “And this is a little smoked salmon with a touch of crème fraiche and pickles onion.” Now I dare to look at Andy. He breaks into a smile the way he does.

“Halle Murcek, gentlemen.” The boys whoop it up and I blush. Hard.

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.

*