Sex Addiction ✔

21

Cayden's POV.

Emily starts helping me look for a job.

Even though most locals speak English, the official languages here are Finnish and Swedish, so my job options are limited to places like cafes and restaurants.

In these tough circumstances, some people who surf the web daily and are familiar with international news still recognize me: "Aren't you that..."

"I didn't commit any crime. I was acquitted," I explain.

The boss nods and then points toward the door, "Sorry, we're not hiring anymore."

But just a day ago, he had posted a job vacancy at the door.

After my fifth failed job application, Emily takes me to a barbecue restaurant.

"I often eat here. They need a dishwasher," she explains.

A pitmaster wearing a baseball cap and an apron comes out from the kitchen.

"He's the boss here," Emily tells me.

Then she says to the pitmaster, "This is my friend. He's looking for a job."

The pitmaster looks me up and down, then hands me an apron, "You can start in the kitchen now."

I had almost lost hope, but hearing this, I'm stunned for a moment. "Don't you think my face looks familiar, like you've seen it somewhere before?"

The pitmaster nods, rolls up his sleeves to reveal his tattooed arms and a scar.

He pats my shoulder, "I've been there too. People like us need a chance to start over."

He's strong, and his pat almost makes my leg shake.

After thinking it over, I still decide to ask, "How did you end up there?"

Emily tugs at my sleeve, signaling me not to bring up the boss's painful past.

But he's quite frank, "Another man was hitting on my girlfriend, so I scared him a little."

Scare?

I doubt his "scaring" means what I think it does.

I'm 190 cm tall, but this guy standing in front of me, with his beard and bulging belly, looks like a tower blocking my view.

"And then?"

"Then I went to prison for a year, and my girlfriend married that guy."

"Uh, I'm really sorry," I say.

The pitmaster still seems a bit hung up on that relationship. He looks slightly upward at the scenery outside the glass window, then back at me with a hint of sorrow, "Alright, enough chit-chat. Let's get to work."

I thought dishwashing would be simple: water, detergent, a cloth, scrubbing, done.

But in reality, plates seem to multiply. Just as I empty one sink, a waiter comes in with a stack of used plates, refilling it.

At the end of the day, when I finally return to my narrow rental room and lie down on my small bed, I can't lift a finger.

But the next day, I'm saved.

The following day is the weekend. During lunch, there are many customers, and the waitstaff can't keep up, so they call me to help serve plates.

I've never been a waiter. They tell me to wear a shirt and vest, and just announce the dish when serving it to the customers.

I nod.

But as I walk through the crowded hallway, bringing grilled meat to a designated table by the window and correctly say "grilled lamb skewer," the female diner asks, "What's your name?"