Chapter Text
What if I cut my own fingers off today?
It would be a deserved punishment for the thoughts I should be able to control. Mixed with the pleasure of going home early.
Perhaps...
I watch the taptaptaptaptap of the knife through the large carrot with a growing desire, letting it inch closer to my carefully tucked fingers. The possibility glazing my eyes over as I envision the scene, rehearsing the lines I'd proclaim about my "surprise" injury-
"Lee!" My coworker attempts a whisper, but it comes out much louder, startling me away from my thought as my knife clatters to the floor. I'm not sure she has a low volume.
"Jeez, butterfingers! Be careful over there. Just thought I'd let you know, your favorite customer is here!" Her melodic tone makes me feel mocked. I scramble to the floor to retrieve my knife, and hide my flushed face, then head toward the sink to clean it. She skips after me.
"You just gonna stare at them all day or do you wanna go say hi sometime?"
"I do not stare. The chefs work behind a glass window for their viewing. That customer just happens to sit close to where I prep."
"Mmhmmmmmmmm- likely story"
"I am simply doing my job Adriana."
"Sure. Well, they always sit alone and they always sit in perfect view of YOUR area. Just saying! Anyway, next round of orders for ya."
She hands me the slips. I take a moment to organize them by cooking time, hesitating when I see the single order of steak fries and our dessert of the week.
The last time they had steak fries they licked the seasoning off each one before eating it. I felt like a starving dog watching them. Desperate. Drooling. Pathetic. It took a small swipe of a knife across my hand to send my blood somewhere else, and to break away from the scene to clean up. I resisted the urge to steal the security footage that night.
They come in once a month, usually paying with a gift card that, according to the serial number, was purchased at the front counter the week previous. I assume some kind of cheap reward from their employer considering they only ever have enough for small dishes. While we are considered a higher scale establishment next to fast food, it is not upscale dining. Our viewing window is a gimmick to make overcharging seem validated.
My specialty is steak and fish. I reluctantly hand their order to a newer cook, as fries aren't as complicated and our dessert of the week is a vanilla bean shake. I don't want further trouble from Adriana for pocketing their order from some kind of misplaced favoritism.
I take the steak and veggies order from the stack to my post and delicately stab it through the ticket holder on my overhead shelf. Underneath this, just outside of my viewing window, is a mess of blue hair and a tiny set of shoulders hunched over a sketchbook.
They are a regular now. It is normal that I would be worried if they suddenly stopped appearing in this booth.
I retrieved the carrot I had chopped earlier and began to saute it with balsamic vinegar, garlic, and thyme.
It is normal that my heart skipped a beat when I had to switch stations with a fellow chef and ended up with a better view. I simply admire their artwork. I simply admire them.
I don’t even know their name.
I retrieve the steak and prepare to sear it with rosemary, butter, and garlic. I keep the carrots warm in a separate pan beside it.
It's normal that I ever so slightly worsen my posture around the days they typically show up so I can more easily glance outside without my coworkers noticing a newly developed hunch.
I gently scoop the butter around the steak pan and drizzle it back on top of the meat. I lower the heat and take my time here. I take my time when they're outside my window.
Their hair shifts in a way that signals a glance in my direction. I attempt to straighten up to avoid eye contact and instead catch my head on the shelf as their eyes meet mine, in full view.
They cover their mouth to stifle a small laugh.
I can see the corners of their smile behind a set of pale, delicate hands. Their chipping nail polish matches their hair.
My face matches the medium rare steak in front of me.
They hold up a thumb with a sympathetic grin, wordlessly asking if I'm alright.
I mimic the gesture back as best I can, despite the crippling humiliation washing over me. The sizzling embarrassment makes the heat of my burners feel hotter than normal.
They nod before turning away to address Adriana, who had just arrived with their order.
I sense the eyes of the chef next to me as I straighten my posture, cutting off my perfect view. I choose to ignore him and continue preparing the meal. The sliced carrots seem to hug the steak on the plate.
I daydream of being demoted to frycook.