Boiling Point
Service, please!
The printer wouldn’t stop.
Orders kept rolling in, one after the other, a never ending scroll of entrees, mains, and desserts, and I was sweating hard. The air was thick with steam and every surface was hot. The flat-top sizzled, the fryer hissed, and somewhere behind me, George was muttering angrily.
“Fucking Saturday night rush.”
He placed a beautifully crispy duck breast onto the plate and then lifted it to the pass, grabbing a new ticket and calling it out to me.
“Two halibut, one lamb, one scallop. Lamb mid, halibut well. Don’t fuck the scallops like you did earlier.”
I tossed my butter into a pan and moved to the cooler to grab the scallops. “Worry about your own station.”
“I would, but I keep having to pick up your slack.”
“Is that why I had to finish those three lamb orders earlier?”
He slammed the cooler shut and brushed past me. His shoulder bumped mine. I didn’t move.
“Asshole.” I tried to push past him, but he caught my arm, holding me at the wrist. I yanked it back and glared at him. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
His voice was low. “Then don’t call me an asshole.”
“I’ll do what I want.”
“See what happens when you do.”
The kitchen roared behind us; the fryer sizzling, the wok cradled in flame, the ticket printer spewing paper. Heat blasted from every direction, the air thick with steam, oil, sweat, and tension. But I stood there, still, staring at George with pure, unwavering, liquid hatred.
“Asshole.” I said again.
His hand was on my waist before I could step away. He pushed me back against the walk-in door, hard enough to make the metal rattle. My breath caught in my throat, and I knew in that moment, suddenly and irrecoverably, that I needed him inside me.
“You think you’re better than me?” I said, pulling up my skirt around my waist and wrapping my arms around his neck.