Must Date The Chef

|| 3.

When he finally spins to face Edwin, tray in his hand like some sort of weapon, the only sound I hear is that of my heart pounding in my ears before my vision goes dark.

My eyes are squeezed shut behind my palms which are slightly cupped over each closed eyelid. The pounding in my ears reduces and I don't hear any other sounds. I part my hands slowly and bring them back to my face almost immediately, afraid and excited for what will happen next.

Peeping through my fingers, I prepare myself for the big, bad, bloody fight I expect to breakout. It doesn't. A few seconds pass. Nothing happens; my hands lower to my laps. The few heads that turned to watch us resume their meals. Their disappointment is the same as mine, it is palpable.

Edwin is still pissed; his hands are now balled into a fist at his side but he doesn't throw the first punch. Sadly, no one throws any punches. The waiter's poker face is good, I cannot decipher what he--if, he feels anything. And I am afraid that after today, he will no longer be working tables here. Edwin will make sure of that.

After what feels like hours, when in truth, less than five minutes have passed, the waiter breaks the stare-off. I have a feeling that he can go longer if he chooses to but he has a job to do. A job that will not last long.

With the tray now pressed to his chest, he says, "Sir, I will not have you harassing me." He speaks slowly like Edwin is a child who has trouble understanding English. He lets out a deep breath, "I would like to attend to other customers now. Thank you."

The last bit is said mockingly as if he is daring Edwin to do or say something wrong so they can have a real fight that I am sure he will win. A secret part of me still hopes for a fight but I am happy that he is being the bigger person among the two of them.

Edwin sits down wordlessly and I imagine his next line of action will be to 'have a talk' with the manager. Edwin is not a bad person; he is just not used to being disobeyed.

"I don't want to see your face again till we leave," Edwin says to the waiter -who is one step away from our table- when he regains his composure. I know what that is.

It's a sorry attempt at showing that he isn't ruffled by the waiter's behaviour. But I know better; I've known him for two years.

The waiter is a troublemaker or he also isn't used to being talked back at because he halts, spins to face Edwin for the second time in ten minutes. My admiration triples.

"Sir, with all due respect, I don't want to see your face as much as you don't want to see mine," he pauses briefly, "I have other customers to attend to. On that note ..."

As if replying Edwin is not enough, he sends a wink in my direction before taking his leave and I have a hard time wiping the grin off my face. He's bold, I like that.

His last words breeze through my mind and I laugh; I love this guy. He just did what I will like to call, Polite Murder and I know a few people who will gladly part with a few nairas to watch it happen again.

A glance at Edwin and all traces of laughter disappear from my face. If he is pissed from their earlier altercation, I have no words to describe his anger now. I clear my throat, uncomfortable under his accusatory gaze and dive into my food, happy to focus my attention on something else.

The numerous flavours present in the purple rice causes my taste bud to explode and I moan with my eyes closed, shaking my head from side to side. At this point, I can as well be a judge at a food competition, sampling the meal that I know will win the show. This is it, heaven on earth.

"Let's go." Edwin's voice jolts me, my eyes part slowly to see if he's joking. He's not.

"I just started eating," I say while struggling to strip the skin off the chicken with my cutlery, careful not to stain my shirt.