|sent from: London, UK. destination: Earlsfield, London, UK|
“I need you to clear table five.”
“I’m finishing my cigarette.”
“Finish it later.”
She’d hoped a female boss would have been less oppressive than the previous succession of angry, unhappy, insecure men who’d preceded her. Opening the door to the kitchen, the smell of frying fat hit her like an abusive boyfriend. Ugly and familiar, tough to shake.
In the restaurant the small number of locals and passing visitors were finishing lunch.
“Hey, I know you,” a middle aged man in a loud shirts said. “Yeah. I’ve been comin’ thru here every year for 10 years, and I remember you every time. My name’s Tom.”
He put a big tip on the table and she swiftly pocketed it before the old bitch could see it.
“My name’s Carole-Ann, it’s good to meet you, Tom.”
She would’ve said something more pointed, but Tom had it right on the money. She’d be there next year and the year after that. Bosses would move on. Boyfriends, too, and she would remain, constant.
When all was said and done hers would be the story worth telling.