class of 2013 ✓

22 | coulomb's law

Blaise's love language is physical touch, which is strange because he absolutely despises any public displays of affection—including something as tame as hand holding. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind, especially since it's already embarrassing enough to be seen outside with a man, but I just think it's kind of funny watching him resort to sneaky ways to show that he cares. Some of his highly classified tactics include: making sure our legs brush when we're sitting next to each other (definitely not an accident like I thought initially), putting his hand on my knee when my lower half is hidden by table tops, and playing with the ends of my hair when there's no one behind me.

What makes it even funnier is the fact that he's, like, not subtle. At all. I let it slide, though, because in private, he makes it up to me, so I don't really have to question if he actually likes me or not. It's kind of fun in some respects—like sharing a secret only the two of us know.

Even now, during my shifts, he'd wait in the kitchen for me to finish working so we can hang out, busying himself by eating the food the Wongs cook for him or by giving my bosses free labor in the form of prepping the vegetables and cleaning. He's a fast learner, so there haven't been any complications with the latter. The couple likes to joke that despite the fact he hasn't had any formal training and I have way more experience, he's a better worker than me. Honestly, I don't doubt it. They probably like him better than me, considering they allow him to hang around when he's not an employee. That, and the fact he can speak Taiwanese with them.

Occasionally, when no one else is around, he'd bury his nose on the crook of my neck while I chop the bell peppers or shower kisses on my temple, always making sure to bolt away from me faster than I can blink when someone else walks in. One time, I'm pretty sure Mr. Wong caught him as he tried to play off the kissing by pretending he was trying to take a piece of dust out of my hair. I don't think Mr. Wong minds, so long as I'm not distracted and we get all our work done. Still, he didn't touch me for the remainder of the shift.

"Dude you're gonna cut your finger off," Blaise mutters from behind me, draping an arm around my waist, pressing his chest to my shoulder blades, fingers playing with the tie of my arpon.

Frustrated, I ignore him, looking at the large knife I'm holding and the irregularly diced onion on the cutting board. If you ask me, I'm being as safe as I can. Stubbornly, I continue to glide the knife over those layers at a faster pace.

"You're making me nervous," he sighs, putting a hand over mine to stop the slicing, "Ms. Wong's gonna get mad at you again. Here, let me do it."

Before I can say anything, he snatches the blade from me, curling his fingers over the root of the onion to hold it in place and cutting in a sawing motion. Maybe this is for the best. He has better technique, better coordination, and is faster. Overall, he's just better.

"I hope it makes you cry, you bitch," I mumble, using my apron to dry my hands.

At that very moment, Nea barges into the kitchen, carrying red topped containers full of uncooked chicken. Next to her, Ms. Wong carries a whole tub full of dirty dishes, watching us intently.

"Maybe we should fire Remi and hire you instead. You're here all the time anyway," she muses, helping Nea pick out the right bottles of sauce.

"I really can't tell if this is a joke anymore," I mutter, placing the minced onion into a jar. Sucks to admit, but he is a lot more efficient and quick than me at this.

"Who said I was joking?" she quips, following Nea into the walk-in fridge as fast as they came in.

"I have no idea what you've done to make the Wongs like you so much, but can you let me in on your secret. It's been two years and they're still bullying me daily," I say, taking a seat on the steel table top. Even with the elevated height, he's a head taller than me.