Broken-Winged Birds

One

The can of cooking spray teetered on the shelf above the yapping fry cook. Tavi stared at the can, almost wishing that it would fall onto the man’s head so he would shut up already. Why did he insist on constantly berating her?

“I’ve been standing here waiting for you to finish the order,” she said as she placed two hamburgers onto a tray. “If you’d gotten them right to begin with, the customers wouldn’t’ve returned them.”

“Not my fault your writing looks like Chinese,” he answered. His nostrils flared, and with his long face and slightly pointed ears, he resembled a horse. She stifled a laugh. “And you weren’t standing here. These burgers have been getting cold for five minutes.”

Tavi glimpsed the number board the cooks used to notify the waitresses that their orders were ready. Her number, twelve, remained dark. She gestured to the board and smirked.

“Mark, we both know you just set them out,” she said. “I don’t know why you have to give me a hard time. Just let me do my freakin’ job.”

As she pushed through the swinging doors, the can of spray toppled onto his head. He brushed the spot and scowled, while Tavi wore a smile.

She delivered the plates to a table of six and apologized for the mix-up and the delay. Once their drinks were filled and they’d reassured her nothing else was needed, she scanned the restaurant for any new arrivals in her section.

Seated in a booth was a man with his back to her. His shoulders stretched for miles in his suit, and his golden hair was cropped, almost as short as the soldiers’ who served a couple towns over. She knew his eyes matched the sky on a cloudless day, that he was handsome, and he was probably a couple of years older than her. She pegged him for twenty-five. What she didn’t know was his name or why he always requested her when there were much prettier waitresses on shift. God knew it wasn’t because of her super-waitressing abilities, nor was it because of her bubbly personality.

Tavi smoothed her white shirt—somehow, after an hour on the clock, there weren’t any splotches of coffee or grease—and placed the tray on a stack in the waitress station. She fished her order pad from the black apron and donned a grin. She hoped it wasn’t goofy.

“Hi, there,” she said. “Would you like a drink while you look over the menu?”

He lifted his gaze from his smartphone and ordered a beer. “What are the specials today, Miss?”

Tavi listed them as she did every Thursday he came in. They were always the same and he never ordered from the special menu, opting for a medium rare T-bone , a salad, and a loaded baked potato instead. Tonight was no different.

She noticed the teen couple seated so close in a booth they were practically on top of each other. Their cokes were about two sips from needing a refill, and someone clearly should interrupt them before their display became a spectacle. It would have to wait until Gorgeous’ order was handed into the kitchen.

She walked through the doors and held her breath to avoid the stench of the greasy air. After seven years of working off and on at The Hungry Fisherman, she’d never become accustomed to it. Eau de Fish, Fries and Burgers, she called this nasty perfume, the real ‘water of the toilet’, and she knew that it was soaking deeper into her clothes with every second she passed in the back with the cooks.

Tavi speared the receipt onto the order hook. Mark was pulling catfish from the fryer, but turned before Tavi could exit the kitchen.

“You hit me with that can on purpose,” he said as he slid the plate under the heatlamps. Mark reached over and flicked the three on the numberboard.