Punchline

Punch

I always spent my days in a kitchen.

Actually, the closest I've ever been to a kitchen was when I took orders and handed them to a chief. My mother always wanted me to take over the family bussiness in New Jersey. I love my mom to death, but there were only two problems.

One, I live in California, Los Angeles, and I prefer it that way. I can hardly go to school everyday without missing my bed, imagine if I left my very own hometown. Two, I'd burn the kitchen with just a touch of the stove.

Cooking and I have never been accquanited. Frankly, it's because I haven't cared for it at all. Don't get me wrong, I love food: I'd eat it three times a day, everyday, but I'm a consumer, not a producer. That's just plain facts.

Anyways, my mother came to the decision that I'd be head chef in Arias Cusine when I handled my first easy bake. It wasn't the talent she noticed- no, it was my lack of competency.

Apparently, my gift of ruinning everything I touched came at a young age. Somehow, I managed to cause an easy bake explosion...that machine ceased to ever exisit. So she came to a conclusion that I'd probably be a dangerous specimen to humanity, and the resturant had been my only hope.

Again, I love my mother. But I hate the kitchen.

I'd rather spend years in medicine than a day with pots and pans.

So while my mom is across the other side of the country, I live with my Aunty. Mom says I'm not allowed to call her a hag anymore, so I settled with the drunkard. Soley because it's evidently undeniable.

She'll down buckets of alcohol, sobbing about how her ex-husband shouldn't have walked out. Or she'll have guys over from the bar, who are just as intoxicated. Either way, you'll always hear sounds from her bedroom at the middle of the night. Shudders.

Her daughter, April, is just as tacky and vulgar. Mom always tells me to be friendly because she's my cousin...because we're both the same age...because we live in the same house. But frankly, I don't even know how we breath the same air, let alone, are blood related.

I wonder how they became so dysfunctional. My dad left my mom as well-we are cursed with a long line of men who tend our females, which is why our ancestor pray for a male. Yet, my mother is still well put together...

Well, at least composed.

Anyways, I work part-time in this stupid resturant, because my mother says "experience is the key," and I'd have to make a few bucks to get by in that miserable prison I call home.

I'm fairly new here, and I think the boss is out to get me. It won't be a shocker if I find myself booted out of the crew.

I stood there, with the handle of the broom on one hand, and my head resting on top. It was pitch black outside, and nearly eight o' clock, which means shift is almost over. I finish wiping off the countertops, brushing a sweat off my forehead. I've never accomplished an entire day of work without bailing out first. Good for me.

Just as I was giving myself a pat on the back, the familiar chime of the bell that hung on the door, played jubilantly.

"Excuse me, we're closed."

It took a moment for me to store the broom behind the counter, before I got to greet the customer. I stopped in my tracks as my eyes locked with his, and it's safe to say the sight was utterly breath taking.

A boy around my age, stepped in, contemplating the interior with a grimace. He was the most gorgeous person that ever walked on this earth, or at least this restaurant. I didn't think it was humanely possible for such a high end sport, lurking around at this side of the community.