Stella hefted the giant mousse-smeared mixing bowl up to the sink, but stopped short before metal hit metal. She swore to her self, silently grunting as she moved the bowl back to the stand. The bottom of the sink was a multicolor sea of vegetable peels, floating on two inches of mucky water. Garret better get his head out of his ass, soon, or I'm gonna make sure it's lodged there permanently, she willed as she cleaned the sink for him, again.
This wasn't how life was supposed to be, Stella lamented as she motioned through her tasks. Life was supposed to be enjoyable -- fresh, exciting. Every day should be an adventure, yet the monotony wore her down like a fingernail on an electric sander.
On the cusp of her 29th birthday, Stella was nothing more than a pastry chef. She had not written the Great American anything, her paintings all fell short of masterpiece. In between struggling to find the money to see a dentist and painting on Salvation Army bedsheets, her dreams seemed to be turning to dust. On top of that, there was a big gap in her life where family and friends should be.
Shaking the muck out of the strainer and rinsing the basin clean, Stella again lifted the heavy mixing bowl and begun her task. She could just make out the strains of her favorite Andrew Bird song from the commotion of running water and clanging stainless steel. Connecting with that small joy, she quietly mouthed along the words to the song.
An off-key whistling broke her moment, as Garret entered the prep kitchen. It was enough to bring Stella's irritation to the surface, again.
"Hey, buddy, ever hear of cleaning up after yourself?" she said in her tough-guy tone. This was her nature and the whole staff knew it was a silly affectation, but Garret bore the sharp end of her sword.
Garret glanced but did not stop moving. "Huh?"
"You left the sink filthy," she sighed as she turned back to the sink to rinse her dishes.
"Hey, sorry, but you know what a time crunch I'm in, chica." He said lightly, flashing a smile as he angled his knife over the radish.
"Yeah, the same time crunch I'm in, man." Her words were really harsh this time.
Garret set his knife down and turned to her. Though he was not usually a confrontational guy, he'd knew he couldn't stand listening the Stella crab the rest of the night. "Listen. My apps need to be ready in two hours. You have a couple extra hours before desert needs to go out. So. I. Win." It was only a half-joke and they both knew it. Pressed for time and weary, Stella ignored the comment.
It was, after all, only the busiest night of the year, also the most dreaded in the restaurant world. Valentine's Day -- the day of never ending two tops, special requests, and hyped expectations. It was a bitter enough day for someone unattached and alone in a big city, Stella mused, without having to spend one's day assembling heart shaped tortes and chocolate raspberry kisses.
It didn't help matters at all that the general manager had decided last minute to open the patio for the "special night", thus doubling their seating capacity. So the cooks and Stella were all left scrambling to make extra batches of everything.
Stella blew a frustrated breath out and tried to calm her mind. She rolled her neck and shoulders while she worked, willing the stress to leave her. All that came to a screeching halt when Garret popped her CD out of the player and replaced it with one of his own. Before she could say anything, he quipped, "Sorry, chica, but I need something that will keep me moving."
Stella fumed silently. Garret had always gotten under her skin, today was no exception. She hated the way everyone excused his little messes, his need for control. Just because he was a culinary genius with social charms and chocolate brown eyes didn't mean he should get special favors. She hated that he was so good looking, and the way that the waitresses were always fawning for his attention. She hated the way he was unflappably confident, like he'd never made a mistake in his life. She hated the way he was inconsiderate -- like leaving a dirty sink, or knife, or cutting board, for another person to clean. Most of all, she hated that, despite all this, her knees went all gooey when their eyes met. Okay, maybe hate was too strong a word...
It was purely a physical attraction and something she would rather die than admit to. But the fact that she couldn't control it, that really pissed her off.
"What, no fight?" Garret poked fun of her when it was clear she had let the hostile music take-over go.
"You want a fight? You better be sure of that before you egg me on, because putting a fist in your face sounds really satisfying right now," Stella said. Her tone was so serious she surprised herself -- she was a short, shy girl who had never been in a fight in her life.
Garret just chuckled. "Sweetie, if you need to, I'll give you a free swing. Sounds like you need to get some frustration out. After shift, of course."
Stella's cheeks burned red but she was careful not to let him see it. "You're on," she closed the conversation, but immediately after the words left her mouth, she regretted them. She'd backed herself into a corner she didn't know how to get out of.
Stella's mind scuttled as she piped pink rosettes. How can I back out without sounding like an ass? That was probably Garret's intention, anyhow. If I ignore it, he will too, she reasoned, and quickly put the event out of her mind.
* * * * * * * * *
After the grueling fourteen hour shift, the last task of the night -- mopping the floors -- seemed to take every last ounce of energy Stella had. That day represented the epitome of everything she hated about restaurant work -- understaffed, overworked, disorganized and frantic as all hell. She knew then it was time to start looking for a job, but the details on that could wait. All she needed for the moment was a chair to sit in, a stiff drink to sip on, and a cigarette to smoke.
The best thing about her job, for Stella, was that she lived hardly four blocks away. Thus, she was able to walk home, change out of her chocolate-and-flour stained chef jacket, and hop in the shower just long enough for the hot water to rinse the ick off of her. As she dried off, she considered just staying in with a book, and she probably would have, if she had whiskey and cigarettes in the apartment. Since she didn't, her decision was made to go to her favorite bar -- a dark and hidden dive bar with a great juke box.
She made a pit stop at the mirror. As a rule, she kept her grooming to a minimum -- her short black waves she wore loose and wild. Her skin -- the color of creamed coffee -- was flawless, she wore no make up. Unlike most pretty girls, she was not fixated on her looks and was not even fully aware how attractive her full lashes, crystal blue eyes, and strong cheekbones were. She had been a very awkward looking teenager, and still saw herself that way. Her 5'2" frame made her feel short and dumpy. In truth, she was neither thin nor heavy, with nice round breasts and a very animated rump.
Stella through her coat over her favorite old jeans and a tight black sweater, and she was at the bar almost as quick as she was out the door. There was something about Hera's, comfortable like an old shoe, yet sultry like an opium den. It had no beer posters, neon signs or rabbit ear televisions you would expect to find in a dive. Just tall booths covered in red crushed velvet, dark wood once ornately carved, now smoothed with time, a lone pool table in the back room, and a sunken and secluded patio beyond that.
If Stella were really a bar person, she'd be at Hera's daily. As it was, the bartender recognized her, but didn't yet know her name or usual drink.
"What'll it be. Whiskey, yeah?" He guessed.
"Maker's. Straight. And a pouch of Bali Shag." Stella slapped a bill on the bar and pulled out her sketchpad. She had been in a bit of a creative slump, lately, but she liked to keep pen and paper around, just in case. Sure enough, her first sip of whiskey and she felt the tension drain away. She flipped open to a fresh page and began.
She never knew what she was going to draw when she started doodling. Her aim was to allow it all to come from the moment, and some days her strokes were strong and bold, or wispy and airy, or shaky and broken. Today, her first few movements were waves of energy, a growing pulsation. She knew as soon as she begun that this drawing was going to be a solid one.
"Hey, chica, you never came to collect your freebie," Garret's voice jolted her back. Stella wanted to cry. The crew never came to Hera's. What was he doing here?
"Right here, right now?" she asked, suddenly ready to punch him.
His grin was broad enough to bring out his infuriatingly cute dimples. She really did want to punch him. "Finish your drink, and let me warm up with one, too," he climbed into the barstool next to her.
Like a balloon popping, Stella lost the will to violence as quickly as she'd found it. It really wasn't in her nature. She reached for her sketchpad, but his voice stopped her. "You don't have brass knuckles in you bag or something, do you?"
"No, I find that when I carry my murdering chainsaw, I don't really need them," she said dryly.
