Sunday morning crawled to its feet with lazy ambiguity and clawed slowly across the opening hours of the restaurant like someone switched the labels on the coffee pots. Tasha came in at half past eleven. I cut the pitas and prepped the hot line while she pulled out the chairs and pulled the plastic wrap off the salad station. The doors were open, the sign was on, but the restaurant generally stayed dead for the first hour. We went through all the right motions, but we weren’t there. A little past noon the church opened its gates and let the flock go out to graze. They came in familial clumps, all cranky about something, and nobody tipped much.
The first rush ended. I hung up my tongs and apron for a minute and stepped out into the early afternoon sun, leaning up against the grimy picket fence out front to bask before a load of dishes and the second wave of overdressed tightwads arrived to graze. By the end of the second rush I was out of jokes, patience, and clean silverware. I ran a few loads of dishes, brewed a fresh pot of coffee and leaned against the counter with my paperback. Tasha wiped down the front, restocked the salad bar and started her crossword puzzle.
I didn’t see the girl pull up a chair at the edge of the patio, but Tasha got her a glass of water and a menu and slid the ticket under my elbow as she sat down and went back to her crossword. I set about the pita preparations, tossed the onions on the grill, slapped a vegipatty on the char broiler. Tasha poured a couple more waters for a new table and came in with a salad plate order. I stepped up to the salad bar and sang along to a Stones song as I scooped salad onto the plate. I glanced up when I felt the eyes on me. Long dark hair tied back, faded, torn jeans, and a worn sleeveless grey t-shirt with a dragon on it. She leaned back in her chair with a hefty oversized paperback open in her lap, and a scuffed black motorcycle boot keeping time against the table leg. She smiled at me and looked back to her book. I finished scooping the plate and flipped her patty on the char broiler. Tasha swished past. What are you grinning about?
“I’m a sucker for a girl with a book in her lap.”
She shook her head. “Are you going to make that falafel plate, or what?”
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.”
She glanced around the corner at the girl. “Yeah, she’s cute.”
“There is nothing sexier to me than a girl with a book in her lap.” I tossed a pita in the toaster, put it all together, and set it on the counter. Tasha grabbed it and took it out. The girl glanced up at her, smiled, and slid the pita aside to make room for that enormous paperback, open in front of her as she ate. She swept a ribbon of hair back from her eyes with a smile and a sigh. Whatever she was reading, it was apparently good.
“Do you know her?” Tasha asked.
“Nah.”
“She’s not from the bar?”
“Dear god I hope not.”
Tasha pulled a plate from the stack and adorned it in salads. “You should go ask her out.” I raised an eyebrow at her. This was a trap. subtle, but still a trap. “It might be good for you to hang out with a straight girl.” She shrugged.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Actually, with my luck, just the fact that I was attracted to her is reason enough to assume that she was a lesbian.
I started scooping out the salads for another plate. On the patio, the reader was finishing the last of her pita. Tasha rang up the ticket and held it out as she walked past. “You want to take her the bill?”
“Nah. find out what book she’s reading, though.”
“Why?”
“Just ask. I’d like to know.”
She shrugged and stepped out onto the patio. The brunette smiled as she took the check, looked it over, pulled out a few bills and handed them back to Tasha. I waited, but Tasha didn’t ask. She walked towards the door.
“Ask her.” I mouthed.
Tasha shook her head.
“Ask her.” I called out.
Tasha stalled. The brunette glanced at me and smiled.
“What’s the book?” I mouthed. The girl looked puzzled. I picked up my paperback and pointed at it emphatically. “The book.” I mouthed.
Tasha turned and said something. I couldn’t hear a word over the radio and the fans. The girl showed her the cover, smiling at me over Tasha’s shoulder. Tasha nodded, smiled, and stepped back in as the brunette picked up her things and walked towards the parking lot.
“Well?”
“I didn’t really understand, something about the ground under her.”
“Who wrote it?”
“I don’t know. You should have asked her while you had the chance.” She shrugged and carried the handful of dishes towards the bus cart.
“Maybe she’ll come back in.” I scraped the grill off and cleaned my spatula.
Tasha smiled smugly to herself. “Yeah, maybe.”
I ran through the kitchen to the back door and spilled through a stack of empty produce crates. She stood beside her car, flipping through her keys and glanced up, smiling softly at the commotion.
“Hey,” I wiped my hands on the greasy front of my apron, “What’s the book?”
Andrew Tomacelli 