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And it has the power to turn me into an idiot, apparently. Late summer’s smile. Christ.
It’s true, though.
And the guy with the blond hair isn’t his boyfriend. It’s most likely stupid to be this excited about the relationship status of a complete stranger, but I can’t help it. Neither can I reduce the sheer amount of giddy hope that is bubbling inside me. “Single” is my favorite word in the English language right now.
I’ve watched August for weeks. In a strictly non-creepy, non-serial-killer way. The moment he first set foot on the train, I noticed him. I was immediately fascinated. He was wearing glasses with black frames, and his dark blond hair was a mess. He talked with his hands and was constantly smiling, showing off his dimples. It was as if the whole train car was filled with his personality.
That first day, he stumbled when he got on the train and almost fell to his hands and knees. I was already halfway out of my seat to help him when he got his balance back. Then I watched him shake his head, mutter something under his breath, laugh, and roll his eyes before he walked away from me and took a seat next to the blond guy.
Later, when I was at work, I spent hours cursing myself for not being quicker. At least it would have given me an opening to talk to him. Now I was left to my own devices, and I’d never been suave or confident enough to just strike up a conversation with a stranger.
Next time, I’d promised myself. But then the next day came, and all I was able to do was send careful glances toward him. I didn’t want to make things weird by openly staring at him, but I didn’t know how to start a conversation either, so I just watched and tried to come up with something to say that would be both witty and charming.
After three weeks, I still have nothing to show for my efforts. No brilliant insights into the New York public transportation system. No clever observations about the other passengers. Not even a lame joke.
I sigh and get off the train. Tomorrow, I promise myself for the thousandth time as I hike my bag over my shoulder and head to work.
A yawn escapes as I make my way toward Mobius, the restaurant where I work as a sous chef. Working weird shifts is like having constant jet lag. The extra shifts I’ve been taking aren’t helping, but people have been quitting left and right lately. It’s no wonder, since Trent fancies himself a budding tyrant of the culinary world. He’s the owner. Sort of. And technically the head chef, but that’s in name only. I’m his sous chef, but the only reason Trent sets foot in the kitchen is to yell at people. I should have already quit, but I’ve stayed out of some misguided sense of loyalty. I helped make this restaurant what it is today. Leaving Mobius… I can’t. Trent would run this place into the ground. All the work I’ve put in would be for nothing.
Mobius, along with a couple of other fine-dining restaurants, belongs to Trent’s uncle. He had a stroke six months ago that left him completely bedridden and unable to even speak, and that’s when Trent rose through the ranks, demoting me in the process. What followed has been a nightmare. Trent used to be my sous chef, and not a very good one. Now he’s my boss, and he despises me.
So, yeah. August and the subway ride to work are the absolute best parts of my day. I drag my feet the whole way to the restaurant. Once inside, I stop at the counter. Maggie, Norman, and Sadie are all angrily whispering to each other.
“Hey,” I say, pulling their attention to me. “What’s up?”
Maggie sends me a grim look, and my stomach sinks preemptively.
“Hey,” she says. “We’re gonna need you to do the knight in shining armor thing again.”
I swear under my breath. “He still hasn’t paid us?”
They all shake their heads in unison.
I let out a deep sigh. “Let’s go, then.”
I knock on the open door and Trent snaps his head up.
“What?” he growls without a greeting. He doesn’t look exactly comfortable with all of us gathering in the doorway. I can see in his eyes that he knows what’s coming. Trent’s a bully, but he can’t be that much of an idiot that he doesn’t realize where this is going.
“You still haven’t paid us.” I’ve never understood why it’s so difficult to pay people on time, and I’m getting so fucking tired of coming here every few weeks to beg for the money I’ve earned.
“I’ll deal with it later,” he says dismissively.
“That’s what you said yesterday. And the day before that.”
He looks up.
“Have you all considered being less impatient?” he snaps.
“Have you considered paying people on time?” I reply.
Somebody snorts behind me. Not sure who, but Trent turns purple in the face in the span of a second. That laugh makes it clear as day he’s not exactly respected around here. And now he’s pissed.
“With the way you’re all slacking right now, I should start docking your pay.” He stands up and crosses his arms over his chest. “I have a restaurant to run. Stop wasting my time.”
I grit my teeth. Keeping my temper in check is becoming more and more of a challenge with each passing day, and I’m saying this as a person who barely has a temper. I don’t like the person I am in this place, and I’m really getting tired of feeling this way.
“Come on, man,” I say, sounding as weary as I feel. “You can’t keep doing this shit. People have to pay rent and eat.”
