Chapter 2
Walking into the restaurant from U Street during rush hour was like dialing into a different radio station: blaring horns and ragged laughs from men in front of the liquor store became shouting cooks, clanging pots, hissing smoke, stone-faced bartenders rattling silver shakers like they’re giving some guy the worst hand job of his life.
I slipped past the host stand, where Leigh’s back was turned, and dropped my bag on the bar.
“Get that shit off there,” Durk called from the grill. The only thing separating the cooks from the floor was a glass barrier.
“Why are you always in my business?”
“Why you always late?”
I pressed the sticky computer screen with a pen to clock in. “They’re doing construction on the Red Line.” The truth was I’d been up since five watching a simulation of Jay’s plane traversing the country. I could never sleep when he was flying.
Durk shimmied several flatbreads off a paddle into the oven, sliding it too far back into the flame. I could tell the crust was going to burn.
Downstairs, I shoved my bag into one of the broken lockers. Someone came behind me and tickled my waist while I wrestled my hair into a ponytail. For one disoriented second, I thought it was Rah even though he’d never do anything like that.
“I’ve been waiting for you to clock in all fucking day.” It was Milan.
She took my scrunchie and finished tying my hair before the foggy wall mirror. She used to do all the girls’ hair in our dorm.
Eric, one of the line cooks, careened down the steps shouting, “Y’all gay!”
“Shut up, Eric.” Milan let my ponytail flop from her hand.
On my way to grab water carafes for my tables, I slammed into Rah’s chest. He caught my elbows, his fingers rough from washing dishes.
“When I’mma see you again?” His drawl made me want to fall asleep inside his mouth. He was the only person from the last year I was still hooking up with, the others being, let’s just say, not fans of me having a boyfriend.
“Soon,” I said. He winked at me as I floated toward my four-top.
In between table runs, Milan and I lingered by the kitchen. I plucked a receipt from the counter to see what time I sent the order to the cooks.
“Durk! Where are the half-smokes and Tater Tots for forty-two?”
Durk slammed a plate of naked sausages in front of me. I couldn’t believe I was approaching four years working at this wretched place.
“That’s diabolical,” Milan said. “Also table nineteen’s been waiting on wings for an hour. You know we split tips, right?” Grabbing my elbow, “Bitch, oh my God, guess who called me crying last night?”
The half-smokes rolled around the plate. “Where the fuck are the buns?” Then to Milan, “Let me guess, Travie.”
“Ew, how’d you know?”
Durk walked past like none of this had anything to do with him. “We outta buns.”
“How are we out of buns?”
“Because we out!” He walked back behind the grill.
Milan threw a Tater Tot at him. “Where are my wings?”
“Working.”
“Well, work faster.”
“How am I supposed to bring these people two sausages on a plate?”
Milan stabbed an old order onto the steel spindle. “The humiliation of it all.”
Durk snatched the plate and took it to 42 himself. Milan and I watched from a distance as the couple exchanged a look of disbelief, then left. I popped the couple’s Tater Tots in my mouth and thought, Great, now I can take my break.
Milan and I climbed the fire escape behind the restaurant and split a silver packet of gummies from the nearby dispensary.
Rowhouses pierced the violet sky. The night purred with dirt bikes racing up the street.
Milan scratched my scalp with her finger pads when I dropped my head on her shoulder.
“I auditioned for this play. It’s not a huge production or anything… ”
I lifted my head to look at her. Milan had done the drama department’s productions in college, but I hadn’t heard her mention acting since.
“I’m so happy for you! What play? Which part?”
She rolled her eyes, but I could sense her excitement. “Katherina in Taming of the Shrew.”
“Oh, that’s your twinnn.”
We laughed. Milan shifted her weight onto her forearms, tipping her chin up, a dimple there like a thumbprint. “I think it’ll be good, you know?”
I checked the time on my phone and saw my mom had texted: Have you heard from your father?
I put my phone away.
After a beat, I said, “We should probably go inside.”
Milan nodded, braids spilling down her chest like bead curtains. Instead we stayed, coiled in thick ropes of humid air, listening to late summer’s final gasp.