Chapter 6: The Waitress and the Dishwasher
The air in Orbs smelled of stale beer, greasy fries, and floor sanitizer. It was the kind of place that wanted you to think it was clever, a knockoff of that famous owl-themed chain, the one where the girls wore orange shorts. Here the shorts were hot pink, and the cropped tank tops said Orbs across the chest.
The Orbs logo was a pair of circles that could pass for a crude drawing of breasts, if you squinted.
The place was doing its usual Friday business. Booths lined the walls, tables scattered across the worn tile floor, and a TV above the bar played a muted game. Lisa tucked a loose strand of her sleek black hair behind her ear as she balanced a tray of empty glasses in one hand. Her cropped white tank top rode up just above her navel, the word Orbs printed in bold navy letters across her chest, the font curved so the letters sat directly over her breasts. Her hot-pink shorts hugged her thighs and left little to the imagination.
She slid the tray onto the service counter at the edge of the kitchen and pulled a ticket from the order wheel. Four burgers, two baskets of wings, one side of onion rings.
Lisa grabbed the ticket and was about to call the order back to the kitchen when Tony's voice crackled over the intercom.
"Lisa, can you come to the back for a minute?"
She sighed and set the ticket down. Tony liked to mix his management duties with flirting. He called random waitresses to the back at least once a shift, always with some pretext, some inventory question or scheduling thing that never quite required a one-on-one.
She pushed through the swinging kitchen door and walked past the prep station.
Tony stood by the dry storage shelves with a clipboard in his hand, grinning the way he did when he thought he was being charming.
"What's up, Tony?"
He glanced up from his clipboard, his grin widening. "Just checking the schedule. You know this is a holiday weekend, right?"
"I'm aware. I'm working it."
"Saturday and Sunday, though." He tapped the clipboard with his pen. "We're gonna be slammed. Game's on, the weather's finally decent, people are gonna want to come out. You'd make a killing in tips."
Lisa crossed her arms. "I can't. I've got a twelve-page paper due Tuesday and a test Wednesday. I need the whole weekend to write and study."
Tony tilted his head, affecting disappointment. "That's a shame. You're one of my best. The customers love you."
"They love the shirt."
He laughed, but his eyes lingered on her a beat too long. "Well, I can't argue with that. You look good in it, Lisa. Real good."
Lisa forced a tight smile. "Right."
Tony eyed Lisa up and down like she was ice cream he wanted to lick. "Lisa, you're really-"
The swinging kitchen door was pushed open, interrupting Tony.
A man stepped through, wiping his hands on a damp rag tucked into his apron. He was older, maybe late fifties, with thinning grey hair and a face lined from years of hard work. His eyes went to Tony first, then to Lisa, and something in his expression softened, almost apologetic.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "I've got a question about the sanitizer. The sink in the back won't hold its temperature, and the health code sheet says it's gotta be at least a hundred and twenty degrees."
Tony blinked, his charm thrown off. "Oh. Bill, right? You're the new dish guy."
"Yeah. Bill." He nodded, then glanced at Lisa again. "First night."
Tony gestured between them. "Bill, this is Lisa. She's been here about a year, one of our best waitresses."
Lisa offered him a real but reserved smile. "Hey."
Bill gave a small nod back. "Hey."
Tony turned his attention to Bill's question. "Sanitizer, huh? Let me go check the breaker. If that's tripped, it'd mess with the heating element."
"Appreciate it," Bill said. "I don't wanna be the guy who shuts down the kitchen on a Friday."
Tony waved it off and headed deeper into the storeroom. Bill stood there a moment, looking at his hands, then at Lisa. "Sorry if I butted in. You didn't seem like you were enjoying the conversation."
She offered him a small, grateful smile. "Thanks. You kind of saved me."
Bill shrugged, a faint hint of color rising in his cheeks. "Just a question about the sanitizer."
Lisa laughed, light and easy. "Well, it was good timing." She gave him a little wave and pushed through the swinging door back onto the floor.
The ticket wheel had three more slips waiting. She grabbed them, called the orders back, and dove into the rush. For the next two hours she was in constant motion, weaving between tables with pitchers of soda and baskets of wings, clearing plates, smiling at customers, running cards. She didn't think about Bill once. He was just the new dish guy, a grey-haired man in an apron who'd interrupted Tony's awkward flirting. Nothing more.
By nine-thirty, her feet ached. She headed for the back hallway. The restroom door swung shut behind her, muffling the noise from the dining room. She splashed cold water on her face, patted it dry with a paper towel, and took a breath.
She pushed the door open, stepped out, and bumped right into Bill.
The bump was nothing, a soft graze of shoulder against shoulder as the bathroom door swung back. They both paused, half-turned to each other, and said "Excuse me" at the same time.
Bill's eyes met hers, and she saw the apology there, the quick downward flick of his gaze before he looked away. She opened her mouth to say it was fine, to laugh it off the way she always did.
And that's when the effects of Professor Stewart Jordan's gas kicked in.
The world tilted.
Heat bloomed in her chest, soft at first, then spreading low into her belly. Her breath caught. The smell of his damp apron, grease and sanitizer and something underneath that was just him, flooded her senses, and she couldn't pull her eyes away from his face. The lines around his eyes, the grey stubble on his jaw, the way his hands hung at his sides, thick and work-rough.
She wanted him.
The thought came to her clean and whole, not a suggestion but a fact. Her knees went weak with it. She pressed a hand to the wall to steady herself.
"You alright?" Bill asked.
"Yeah." Her voice came out breathy. "Just a long shift."
He nodded, and for a moment neither of them moved. She watched his throat work as he swallowed, and she wanted to press her mouth there. Wanted to taste the salt on his skin.
"I should get back to the kitchen," he said.
"Sure." She stepped aside, and he moved past her, close enough that his arm brushed hers. The contact sent a shiver down her spine. "Bill?"
He stopped and turned.
"When does your shift end?" Lisa asked.
"One." He frowned. "It usually takes an hour to clean up after we close. First night, I'm guessing it'll run a little past."
"Mine ends at twelve-thirty." She swallowed. The heat in her belly twisted.
Bill frowned, his brow creasing. "Why do you ask?"
The question landed softly, not suspicious, just curious. Lisa's heart hammered. The heat in her belly coiled tighter, and she had to grip the edge of the counter to keep her hands steady.
"No reason," she said.
Bill's eyes lingered on her for a beat longer than they should have. Then he nodded, turned, and pushed through the swinging door back into the kitchen.
Lisa stood there, her hand still pressed to the wall. The heat in her belly hadn't faded. It had settled into something thrumming, humming beneath her skin like a low current. She was confused. This was Bill. He was at least in his fifties, grey-haired, a dishwasher. She was nineteen, a sorority girl, a waitress with men her age texting her all night. And yet every thought she had circled back to him. The rough pad of his thumb. The crease of his brow. The way his apron smelled of grease and soap and something undeniably male.
She shook her head hard and pushed off the wall. "Get a grip," she muttered, and walked back onto the floor.
But she couldn't get a grip. For the rest of the shift, she moved through her tables on autopilot. She smiled at customers, ran cards, topped off drinks, but her eyes kept drifting to the kitchen pass-through. She caught glimpses of him between orders: his broad shoulders bent over the sink, steam rising around his face, his arms wet to the elbows. Every glimpse sent a fresh spike of heat through her chest.
She dropped a fork. She mixed up an order. Twice she almost walked into a table because she was watching the kitchen door.
"Lisa, you okay?" one of the other waitresses asked as she rushed past.
"Fine. Long day."
She wasn't fine. She was burning. And underneath the heat, a sharp, rising dread. She didn't understand why this was happening. Was she some kind of freak? He was old enough to be her father. But her body didn't care. Her body wanted him with a hunger that made her knees weak.
At midnight, Tony flipped the lights in the dining room twice, the signal for last call. The few stragglers drained their beers, slid off their stools, and filed out into the cool night. Lisa wiped down the bar top and watched the door swing shut behind the last customer. The room went quiet.
She worked through the closing routine on autopilot. Chairs up on tables. Ketchup bottles capped and carried to the cooler. Her tips pooled in a glass at the register, a stack of crumpled ones and a few fives. She counted them without registering the total.
Through the kitchen pass-through, she could see Bill at the sink. He was still scrubbing, his shoulders bent, steam rising around his face. The piles of trays beside him had shrunk to just a few. His rag hung from his apron pocket, sopping wet.
She shoved her tips into her apron pocket and tied off the trash bag. Through the pass-through, Bill had moved to the floor drain, hosing it down. The spray hit the tile with a hiss.
She watched Bill hose down the floor drain, the water swirling toward the grate. Steam curled off the tiles. Tony stood over him, clipboard in one hand, pointing at the corners of the room with his pen.
"You gotta get under the edges of the prep tables," Tony said. "The health inspector checks those."
Bill nodded and moved the nozzle. Water blasted against the stainless steel legs.
"Looks good," Tony said. "You're faster than most first-nighters."
Bill straightened and hung the hose on its hook. "Just want to do it right."
"Appreciate that. When's your next shift?" Tony asked as he clapped him on the shoulder.
"Wednesday night."
Tony glanced through the pass-through and spotted Lisa standing at the bar, counting her tips again.
He pushed through the swinging door into the dining room. The kitchen crew filtered out behind him, pulling off aprons, grabbing jackets from the hook by the office. Bill was last, wiping his hands on his rag before stuffing it into his apron pocket.
Tony stopped a few feet from her, brows raised.
"What are you still doing here?"
Lisa's heart jumped. She had a reason ready, but it caught in her throat when she saw Bill stop behind Tony, tugging his apron over his head.
"Just finishing my side work," she said.
Tony glanced at the bar, the clean surface, the stacked menus. "Looks done."
"Checking the register balance." She gestured at the screen. "It's off by a dollar. Didn't want to leave it for the morning shift."
Tony nodded, buying it. "You're good, Lisa. Go home."
He turned and headed for the office.
Bill started to follow the rest of the kitchen crew out, his jacket already on, his apron folded over his arm. He was two steps from the door when Lisa's voice cut through the quiet.
"Bill?"
He stopped. Turned.
"Yeah?"
Lisa's heart hammered against her ribs. Tony was still in the office, the door cracked, the light on. She could hear him humming. She took a breath and stepped closer, close enough to smell the sanitizer on his sleeves.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
Bill blinked, surprised by the question. "Home."
"Can I come with you?"
The words came out before she could stop them. Bill's eyebrows shot up. He stared at her, jaw working, as if he was trying to find the joke in her voice.
"I'm sorry," he said slowly. "Did I hear that right?"
Lisa's cheeks burned. The heat in her belly coiled tighter, but she didn't back down. She stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of grey in his stubble, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed.
"Yeah. You heard right." She wet her lips. "I know it sounds crazy. I can't explain it. But I want to be with you tonight."
Bill's face went through a series of quiet changes. Confusion, then something careful, then a flicker of desire he tried to suppress. He glanced toward the office, where Tony's light still burned.
"You're a pretty girl, Lisa. You could have any guy your age. Why me?"
She opened her mouth to answer, but the truth wouldn't come. She didn't know. Her body hummed with a certainty her mind couldn't name.
"Because I want you," she said. "That's all I know."
"You want me?" Bill repeated, his voice thick with something between wonder and disbelief. "What are you.. Twenty-one?"
"Nineteen," she said.
The number hung in the air between them. Bill's brow creased, and something shifted in his eyes. Not disgust. Not alarm. Something careful, almost tender.
"Honey, you're young enough to be my daughter."
"I know." She stepped closer. The heat in her belly flared, and her voice dropped low. "I don't care about that. I don't care about any of it. I just know I want you."
Bill's jaw worked. He glanced at the door, then back at her. The office light flickered as Tony moved inside.
"Bill," she whispered. "Please."
He looked at her for a long moment. The wariness in his face softened into something else. Something willing.
"You're sure about this?" he asked.
"I've never been surer of anything."
He let out a breath, rough and slow. Then he nodded once and reached for her hand. His palm was calloused and warm, and the touch sent a jolt through her chest.
"Alright," he said. "Let's get out of here."
They moved through the back door together, into the cool night air.