Bird Song

Chapter 1

Hi everyone. Just posting the first chapter, please let me know what you think, if it's interesting, something you would keep reading, if I've done an okay job staying in the same tense/person. Thanks so much! Hope you enjoy. Also, if you don't care for it, please let me know why. Thanks for reading!

I

Lord I can't hold this in any longer, I thought, please don't let them ask me any more questions. Apparently, He wasn't listening.

“Can I get this reuben cold?” the woman asked. She tapped her green manicured nails on the description of our classic hot reuben, shoving the menu under my nose.

“This cob salad, I want it without the apples. Do I get a soup with that? What were the specials again? Do you have any cold soups here? You know what, cancel that salad. I'm going to get the shepherd's pie, but I still want to hear the soup of the day again” the man, presumably her husband shot at mebefore I could even attempt to answer his wife. Did he even stop for breath?

A loud sigh sounded from the corner of the booth where the teenage girl, chin in hand, stared obstinately out the window at the vast emptiness between us and the highway.

I took a deep breath, testing whether or not I was going to spew my meager dinner all over this unfortunate family before answering their absurd string of questions. “I'm sorry ma'am, the reuben is only served hot...” Several excruciating minutes later when they finished placing their orders, I speed walked to the back of the diner as discretely as I could, skipping the kitchen altogether.

Pausing in my desperate mission for a moment to lock the bathroom door, I tore off my apron (I had made the mistake of leaving it on once already) and fell in front of the toilet. I made it just in time. As my fingers searched the cold porcelain for something to hold on to, the familiar heaves wracked my whole body. Please don't pee was my last coherent thought as my dinner exploded gloriously into the toilet bowl. I had left my eyes open, and the green broccoli specks floating amidst the yellow-orange gel-like substancestarted the vomiting off all over again.

I glanced at my watch as I wiped my mouth with a bundle of the cheap toilet paper I had stocked at the start of my shift. At least seven minutes. There goes my tip I thought bitterly. It took another two minutes to find my apron where it landed behind the trash can. Some cool water on my face had me back to (relative) normalcy, and my hands blindly performed the task of tying the apron behind my back. For no logical reason I glanced around as if someone would have materialized in the unisex bathroom, before sticking two fingers between my legs.

“Fuck.” I had pissed myself. I stuck my fingers down there again to see if it was bad enough that I needed to change. Nope. I would probably have a rash tomorrow, but my table was waiting. I reached into my apron and pulled out a travel bottle of Scope and rinsed my mouth while washing my hands.

I nearly hit Buddy Hermann, our cook, as I burst out of the bathroom. He smiled pityingly at me as I squeezed past his massive form.

“Got the sickness again dearie?” Over the past six years I had gotten used to the thick German accent.

“Yeah, thought I'd be done with it by now but...” I did a weak imitation of a smile and shook my head.

Hermann gave me a heavy pat on the back, “I remember my wife, bless her heart, she didn't have it until a month before our boy came, and it was all day and all night.” A sad look crossed his face; it wasn't often that he spoke of his wife and child. The local story was that they were killed in a car wreck when he was fighting in the Gulf War. “Ay, oh well. It will pass dearie. Trust me, that little angel you've got cooking in there will make it all worth it,” and he turned back to head into the restroom, effectively ending our conversation and reminding me I had a job to do. Thing was, if Hermann was in the bathroom, there was no one to start the order. I dropped it off anyways.