Frank can't stop eating at this place, seriously can't stop. He's actually a pretty good cook but lately his kitchen has seen less action than he has is the past few months. It's not his fault, really it's not. He's just powerless to his taste buds and apparently his dick, because not only is the food in this place unbelievable but the chef is also so hot Frank actually misses his mouth first time he sees him, which is a pretty fucking huge deal because Frank Iero never misses his mouth (take that as you will).
Audrey's is a quiet little place, all warm and quirky and makes Frank feel like he's sat in his grandmother's kitchen again. There are dozens of Audrey Hepburn pictures along the walls, alongside several quotes of hers painted in silver (Frank's favourite being "You can always tell what kind of a person a man really thinks you are by the earrings he gives you"). The menus are red pleather, smooth under his fingertips and bright against his black nail polish, and every napkin is folded neatly in an empty wine glass with the words 'Have a nice day' printed on the top corner. His usual table is at the far end of the restaurant, hidden just enough behind a tall potted plant so that he can people watch in comfort and peace. Most importantly though, there's a full view of the open plan kitchen, where Frank's close enough to see his hot chef wipe the sweat from his forehead.
It takes Frank near an hour to get through a bowl of soup as he slowly scoops up the delicious starter, one spoonful at a time, while watching his hot chef whip around the kitchen, chop, dice and toss things in to flaming pans while shouting orders to his workers in a tone that sends little zings of electricity right to Frank's pants. He imagines different kinds of orders in a similar tone, and holds his current spoonful of soup in his mouth for a long moment while he remembers how to swallow. By the time Frank gets to his main he's ready to take himself home, jerk off and call it a night.
And that's how it's been for what feels like a lifetime. Frank's yet to learn his name and his chef has yet to learn Frank exists but already he knows so much about the hard working food master. He knows almost all of his smiles now, his happy smile, satisfied smile, triumphant, pleased and proud smile. He knows how his lips quiver when he's frustrated and how his hips sway hypnotically when he's dancing to a song on the radio Frank's too far away to hear. He knows that although he shouts a lot at his co-workers he's not an asshole, because he's often seen smiling and laughing loudly at a joke someone just told. He's just passionate, and Frank wonders if he shows the same amount of passion in other aspects of his life.
Today is no different from any other day that Frank visits the restaurant. He sits at his table, eats his soup at snail's pace and watches his chef work. His cell is on silent, as it always is, and he can feel it vibrating in his pocket - just barely though because he doesn't really have the mental capacity at the moment to concentrate on anything but his chef. He ignores it and soon it stops. It's either his mother or Ray, most probably his mother. He'll call her tomorrow; no doubt she wants to tell him about his grandfather's latest DIY antics that will, and quote, "drive both him and my hair brain mother in to an early grave".
Suddenly Frank hears his laugh and its close, closer than ever before. He lowers his cutlery, darting his eyes over to the bar. And he's there behind it, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he leans forward, smiling brilliantly whilst he talks with one of the waitresses. At the same time as Frank's heart sours his stomach sinks in jealously at his chef's flirtatious grin towards the young waitress and her empty tray. Get back to work you slut, Frank thinks with narrowed eyes towards the girl before scolding himself and glaring in to his food. You fool.
That night Frank can't sleep, no matter how hard he tries. He lies in bed and listens to the probably hookers outside his window banter with drunken cackles before turning on his side and staring hard at the wall. He can't get his chef out of his mind, which isn't so unusual, but now he can't get the girl out of his head either. He just keeps thinking about the two of them, laughing and joking and flirting, maybe she stays late one night and his chef has left something in the kitchen so he comes back, maybe they get talking and maybe they fuck on the stainless steel counters in the kitchen, which he doesn't wipe down before preparing Frank's next meal. He groans, takes the pillow from behind his head and pushes it against his face. Three hours later, he's still no where near sleep. He tosses the pillow to the bottom of the bed and sits up, swinging his legs over the side and planting his feet on the cold floor.
