Moon, Bitten

Chapter Twelve

       

       

           “Table five needs a refill, Kate.” Grumbled her disgruntled co-worker.

          Kate winced inwardly, worrying her lower lip as she peered over her shoulder to a group of snickering teenagers glowing her way, some purposely holding their half-empty glasses in a ‘come hither’ motion.

          “And three is still waiting to get their order in.”

          “Lighten up, Campbell!” Julie snapped as she stalked around the counter, planting herself firmly before the stout, tattooed waiter. “I do recall a time when you yourself started and nearly set fire to the kitchen.” She raised a brow and lightly dabbed his chest with a manicured finger, “It’s her first week – don’t be an ass.”

          He muttered an intangible curse beneath his pungent cigarette breath and wiped kitchen grease onto his stain riddled apron. “Get to the customers.” He demanded and stormed to the back.

          Kate sighed heavily and sank into a stool, her shoulders sagging. “I’m not sure I’m waitress material.”

          Julie snorted, “Oh please, don’t let Johnnie Campbell deflate your confidence. He’s all bloat and hot air.”

          Kate suppressed a grin and gathered to her feet, noticing a few sharpening glares as she retrieved her tray. “I best get to my hungry patrons.”

          “Let me know if you’re in need of saving.” Julie teased, squeezing Kate’s shoulder reassuringly as she swept by her.

          “Will do, Capitaine.”

          Half way into the week of her newfound profession and she’d already manage to discombobulate every order, forget refills and topple a tray here and there – so much for blending among the norm.

          You need this. Her sound mind attested from afar.

          She had to admit – its crumb infested, tap-watered, impenetrably buttered counters were not idealistic to most – but it appealed incredibly to her broken self.

          She found the constant noise of the diner somewhat comforting, all to the fixed sounds of silverware pealing and children giggling to the smooth and dulcet tune of B.B King streaming from the jukebox in the corner.

         There was no silence – none of that deafening, detestable flatness that prompted terrible and frightening things.

         Though her security would always remain in questioning and not entirely restored, this tiny piece of what most viewed as a nine-to-five, was a gesture of hope, even if her customers appeared none too pleased with her service.

       “We’ve been waiting ten minutes –“

       “Excuse me, miss!” shouted one of the teenagers who wore a ridiculous amount of eyeliner and an odd shade of lipstick, shook her glass forcibly with a deepening scowl.

       “One minute – “ she called softly.

       “She is not getting a tip.” Another teenager exclaimed irritably.

       Kate clenched her eyes and inhaled a deep breath, clipped tones and menacing leers coming from every angle – breathe.

       “Miss?” somehow, amongst the buzz of complaints, a gentle voice compelled her from her thoughts.