". . .no syrup," the man finished off, then went to his cup of tea. He paid no mind to me and my ordinary face which was just another bubble in a bath of random faces he probably paid no mind to, like me–a waitress.
My body still sort of felt stiff. I just couldn't quit this job as yet–I needed the cash.
I dragged my feet to the table of two people and was careful to bring my lips to a smile–the manager was rather prickly about stuff like that. He sort of was prickly about me in general, though lately, for some reason, he had somehow backed off–he let me do my job.
It was, maybe, an improvement.
The couple in front of me, all lovey-dovey, could barely decide what they wanted to order and unfortunately, that was my job–I had to convince them of our menu.
". . .and the sour-sweet apple sauce sure would top that off," I ended, with a bit of flair to my voice.
They both stared at each other, to confirm that they both were going for the dish, and then they turned to me, grinning.
"We'll take the banana waffles," they both said in unison, unfortunately.
"Are you sure?"
They nodded, happily. "Yeah."
Even the shape of their noses was sort of similar–I couldn't wait to get away from their grins.
I jotted that down, fast.
I didn't favour tables such as the one I dragged my feet to–it was just my table, however.
"I'm sorry, but. . .could talk to my son," the lady said as soon as I was at her table, brown hair tied into a messy ponytail.
"Excuse me, Ma'am?"
"Uh, my son here hates his food touching. . .and. . .he–[she paused to sigh]–won't eat, if the fruit's touching the waffles," she finished off, her eyes practically glistening.
I turned to the son, he looked prepared for a challenge. "Uh, I can get you waffles without fruits in it."
"I like the fruits. . .just not on my waffles. . and it doesn't have any syrup. . .and I like syrup," the boy said.
I parted my lips, but someone stepped in before I could maybe put myself in a line of fire.
"How's about we get the waffles and fruits on separate plates. . .then give you a syrup cup, is that okay?" the voice was slightly rough and rare on these parts of the floor–he was usually behind the scenes.
I turned to him and stared at his tag, which clearly said 'MANAGER' and stated his role, and then turned away before I met his eyes–they sort of made me anxious, anyway.
I also, sort of, didn't want him on my case again either.
I could smell his after-shave.
He didn't say a word, he just gave me that look that just made me feel so many things, and neither of them were good, before he started walking away from me–forcing me to trail right behind l. There were only two other girls who suffered the same, I was the luckiest out of the two–I got to go into that office all the time.
I didn't not know what I had done wrong this time, though.
I guess I never really was was aware of the errors he sort of liked to point out, anyway.
I couldn't deal with the man.
I shoved my hands into the front pocket of my apron, waiting for him to just go on about my incompetence like he sort of liked to.
Those blue eyes of his sure did stare.
I didn't even get why I had agreed to step in.
"What are we doing here, again?" I asked.
He sort of offered me a smile. "You sure were stuck there, weren't you?"
I didn't get where he was taking this, but his after-shave was engulfing my nostrils tightly and it was so strongly heavy that it was practically the only thing I could really smell in there, literally.
I suddenly felt reality shake my numb thoughts to life–they spun.
I folded my arms tightly. "Did I do something wrong here?"
He did not get rid of that smile. "Why do does me talking to you have to be about that?"
I didn't know why the other girls hadn't, maybe tried to stop me, I just suddenly felt the space was a bit too small–I could smell the sticky sweetness of syrup.
"You're my manager, you–"
"I'm just worried about you," he stepped closer.
The liquid blueish colour in his eyes was so bright.
"I'm fine. . .and again, if I've done something wrong, I'm sorry. . .but the kid's mom had ordered those waffles like that. . .and –"
"Why aren't you ever sorry?"
I blinked. "What?"
He was suddenly big enough to tower over me, his after-shave swallowed the little air that was in the pantry, and I felt like such a fool for having followed him here.
He had never tried anything, but suddenly I felt so unsure about that–we were alone in the pantry and he was the manager.
I could smell his breath as he stared right at me. "You're always messing up, always thinking you're better. . .and you never–"
The pantry door parted so abruptly, as if it were rip from its hinges, as I clung to a packet of what I could only feel, with my fingers, to be brown sugar from behind me on the shelf.
He quickly removed his arm from over me. "What is it?"
"They are calling you," the person said, hanging by the door.
He practically stomped his way right out of the pantry, but not before he passed me one last cutting glance–my eyes fled from his.
He left his smell lingering there as I wiped the little granules from the tips of my fingers.
I turned to the big eyes I had gotten used to and all I got was a stare in which I couldn't read. "You break's coming up."
I didn't mind–I was going home.