"Hey, genius, you're not scrubbing dishes, you're caressing them. Do you want the plates to write you a thank-you note for your gentleness?" the supervisor barked, his voice loud enough to make half the restaurant staff turn their heads.
Draven clenched his jaw, refusing to look up from the sink. He gripped the sponge tightly, scrubbing the offending plate with as much force as he could muster without cracking it in half. "Yes, sir," he muttered under his breath, barely audible.
"What was that?" The supervisor leaned in, smirking as if he'd just cornered prey. "Got something to say, tough guy?"
Draven took a deep breath. Not today. Not now. You're a puppy. Harmless. A walking mat for the universe. He forced a strained smile, though his hand ached to do something far less polite. "No, sir. Just focused on getting these spotless."
The supervisor scoffed. "That's right. Focus on something useful for once. I swear, people like you think you're doing us a favor just by existing."
Deep breaths. Count to ten. Draven glanced at the soapy water, imagining it was blood for a fleeting moment. He closed his eyes to banish the thought. When he opened them, the plate was clean, gleaming under the dim light of the kitchen. He handed it to the next station and grabbed another without a word.
---
By the time his shift ended, Draven felt like he'd been in a battlefield, though the only weapons had been condescending remarks and the occasional passive-aggressive jab. His uniform reeked of grease and soap, and his hands were pruned from hours in the water.
Stepping out into the crisp evening air felt like a victory. He took a deep breath, relishing the quiet of the street compared to the chaos of the kitchen.
As he walked toward his apartment, he caught sight of her. Klara. She was struggling with a paper bag filled with groceries, the bottom threatening to give out at any moment. She muttered something under her breath, clearly frustrated.
Draven's heart raced. What are the odds? He debated approaching her, his mind already conjuring up a dozen scenarios where she told him off again. Still, his feet moved forward before his brain could stop them.
"Need a hand?" he asked, keeping his tone casual.
She turned to him, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What are you doing here?"
"Walking home," he said, gesturing to the bag. "Looks like that thing's about to explode. I can help."
She hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. Then, as if deciding she couldn't care less about his intentions, she thrust the bag toward him. "Fine. But if you drop it, you're paying for everything."
Draven chuckled softly, taking the bag. "Noted."
They walked in silence for a few minutes, the tension between them palpable. Draven wanted to say something—anything—to break the awkwardness, but every time he opened his mouth, her glare stopped him.
"You're awfully quiet," she said suddenly, her tone sharp. "No snide remarks? No pickup lines?"
He glanced at her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Wouldn't dream of it. You're scary when you're mad."
Her glare softened slightly, though she quickly masked it. "Smart man."
As they approached her building, a group of her friends appeared, chatting loudly. One of them called out, "Klara! Who's that with you?"
Draven watched as her demeanor shifted instantly. She snatched the bag from him and turned to her friends, ignoring his presence entirely.
"Just some guy," she said dismissively, her tone dripping with indifference.
Draven felt a pang in his chest but quickly masked it with a laugh. "Glad I could be of service, 'just some guy' is my middle name."
The group burst into laughter, though Klara didn't join in. She shot him a look that was hard to read—somewhere between annoyance and curiosity.
As they walked away, he heard one of them say, "Come on, Klara, tell us about him!"
"Nothing to tell," she replied, her voice fading as they rounded the corner.
Draven stood there for a moment, staring after her. He hadn't even realized he was smiling until his cheeks began to ache. "Klara," he murmured to himself, savoring the sound of her name.
---
The next day at work was no easier.
"Hey, Dish Boy," a customer called from the counter, waving an empty glass. "Is it too much to ask for a refill? Or do you need a map to find the soda fountain?"
Draven gritted his teeth, forcing himself to smile as he passed the glass to the waiter. "Coming right up," he said through clenched teeth.
By the time lunch rush was over, he was ready to quit. The supervisor hadn't stopped berating him for minor mistakes, and the customers seemed to have made it their mission to test his patience.
"Why do I even do this to myself?" Draven muttered, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn pan.
"Because you've got a death wish?" one of the cooks offered, laughing.
Draven shot him a look but couldn't help smirking. "Something like that."
As the day dragged on, he found himself thinking about the bookstore he'd passed the other day. Maybe it was time to consider other options. At least books didn't talk back.
---
That evening, he sat in his small apartment, staring at the ceiling. The silence was deafening, but for once, he didn't mind. He thought about Klara, about the way her voice had softened when she wasn't trying to impress her friends. He thought about the way her eyes had darted to him, just for a moment, before she'd turned away.
"Hopeless," he muttered to himself, laughing softly.
But for the first time in a long while, the laugh didn't feel hollow.