Color Me Crimson | 𝘙𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘝𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦

5͢

I haven't crashed and burned yet, so I'd say things are going well. As the minutes slip by, my courteous smile becomes less difficult to maintain and even eases a genuine contentment. The workflow is familiar, a calming ebb and flow of duties as I whisk from one table to the next.

Except at Transylvania, the work feels less like a burden and more of what this job is meant to be—a service. I'm a completely renewed person compared to the worn-down state Anne found me in last night. Dressed in a sharp uniform and surrounded by the soothing atmosphere of crimson hues and ambient lighting, I find myself believing I can do this. Almost as if I could belong here, if I try.

The six tables assigned to me have been rather considerate, and I do my best to learn as I go. During the few lulls between serving, I tackle learning the menu. The dishes are all written in Romanian, and needless to say, pronunciation is a major stumbling block. Although the spiced aroma filling the kitchen is enough to motivate me to learn the name of every dish and learn to distinguish it by taste.

Mags alone has dutifully hopped around and handled the drink orders for both our sections. All I can do in return is cover the basics, wiping tables and picking up empty plates. That is, until she gives me a reminder to not push myself, especially when we still have a long shift ahead.

Instead, I redouble my efforts with the tricky menu. Their specialty is, ironically, red wine. They stock everything from generic Cabernet Sauvignon to the brand name Domaine Leroy, and have a more than plentiful collection of white wines, spirits, and liquors. I've never worked at a place that caters to a more expensive clientele, and I try to note the nuances of each beverage to accommodate for my lack of experience.

The tap of approaching footsteps echoes around the corner, and I pull my head out of the menu and press back into the wall. Half a second later, Mags passes with four loaded plates. Once she's gone, my chest falls with a heavy breath at the close call.

I still haven't forgotten about that upcoming meeting with the owner, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't have me on edge. This job wasn't within the scope of my resume in the first place, it's a far cry from a dingy diner on the corner, so what will I say when asked what I can offer the business? That the decor gives me some strange connection? Or because I like the ambiance?

No, that would make it clear I'm grasping for straws. I need a distraction.

Glancing at my tables, I notice some waters need to be refilled and grab a new pitcher of ice-water from the kitchen. But when I make my way to the table, I see Mags has beat me to it. I'll have to be quicker next time.

She finishes and comes to greet me just inside the hallway leading into the kitchen, taking note of the pitcher in my hand. "Hey, good eye, you noticed the water." A congratulatory smile flashes on her face, although I didn't do anything. "You've been working hard to memorize the menu and managed to focus on the customers. Already becoming one of the most dedicated workers."

I mumble a thank you, not quite as impressed with myself as she is, and turn to return the pitcher to the fridge.

"Wait a moment." Mags stops me mid-step. "I think I just saw Lucien and his guests enter one of the private rooms." She cranes her neck. "Yep, the large one on the right. Why don't you bring them that water and take their orders?"

The pitcher in my hand trembles, ice clinking against the glass. Lucien must be the owner. I turn, though I don't feel the movement. Likewise, my smile once again becomes more automated than felt. "Sure, sounds great."

Now or never, right?

Mags disappears back into the kitchen and I'm left to face the private room alone, armed with the pitcher of ice-water. Well, I expected to fail all along, so it won't really be a disappointment. Or less of one that it could be.

Smooth and cool to the touch, I squeeze the door handle and collect myself before pulling it open and stepping head-first into what—or who—awaits on the other side.

The private room includes one large, red oak table and several tall-backed chairs of the same wood. The walls are painted black, and crimson sconces line the walls. Like the rest of Transylvania, it's beautiful, but eerie. Earlier I thought the room was cozy, but that sentiment disappears as three refined men in starkly pressed black suits, along with Anne, all shift their discerning gazes on me.

I clear my throat. "Good evening. My name is Hanna, and I'll be taking care of you today."

Stepping closer, my nerves create a magnetic-like field that slows time and speeds up my heart rate. Good thing no one else can hear my thundering pulse.

With one more deep breath, I steady my hand and then pour water into the glass in front of the man at the head of the table. He has thick blond hair, cut short so it spikes out evenly a few centimeters from his head. Even sitting down, his stature appears broad and tall. Although perhaps not as tall as the man at his right, who is more lanky, but tough and well built all the same.

The room is silent apart from the pouring water and cubes of ice hitting against the glass. That, and the thrum of my overactive heartbeat. I'm being observed, put under a microscope, and they aren't trying to hide it in the least.

This feels like some sort of initiation. My spare hand wraps around my waist in an effort to hold myself together, fingers skating over the fresh cut between my ribs so I can focus on the sting of pain instead of the twist of self-consciousness.

After the first two glasses, I move to the opposite side of the table, where a third man sits next to Anne, both maintaining seamless posture. The air around all of them is grim... foreboding. As if they all know something I don't.

Which, obviously, they do. I'm sure they've had the chance to look over my resume, they know where I live and what I've been doing for the past few years, while I know nothing about them.

None of them so much as move an inch. What am I supposed to do? Will they not speak a single word? What if Anne's the only one who speaks English?

Finished filling the glasses at last, I straighten and set down the pitcher. My fingers uncurl from my side and I reach into the apron for a pad to take their orders. A firm voice stops me.

"Hanna, was it?"

Finally. Let us begin!

❤️‍🩹 Siberia