Paper Cranes

Chapter One: Table Twenty

It was a slow night at the Mockingbird Cafe & Bar. Granted, every night is a slow night in the middle of a global pandemic. Half the tables were empty to abide by social distancing guidelines, the other half empty because wearing a mask in the Texas summer heat doesn't make for the most enjoyable dining experience. I got hired on as a waitress easily enough, one interview and I was in. They were a bit desperate after losing most of their employees during the covid shutdown, or maybe it was because of poor management. Nevertheless, they were desperate for servers, and I was a nineteen-year-old college dropout desperate for a job so I could afford to move out of my parent's house.

The money's fickle. Some nights I leave with a mere twelve dollars in tips, and others I leave with two hundred after letting some drunk cowboy flirt with me. They may not have been able to see my fake smile through my mask, but I know how to turn on that sweet southern charm. I let them ramble on about things I don't care about, pretend to laugh at the jokes only they think are funny, bat by eyes when they call me beautiful, and try not to roll them when they come in wearing their MAGA hats. To be honest, they disgust me, but by God I'll get them drunk and take their money. It's all in the hussle, baby.

Thursdays are open mic night in the bar, meaning most of the customers are crowded around the rotating queue of aspiring musicians, ordering drinks at a frankly astounding pace. It's a miracle that our bartender Ron can keep up with them as I'm spending my shift in the back, gossiping with the other servers and the kitchen staff. Working at a restaurant in a college town means that you are never short on new information about which barely legal server is sleeping with which twenty-something cook. It's trivial, and honestly a little troubling if you think too long about it, but it's entertaining and takes your mind off the shitty tippers at table thirteen.

"Hey, Paige," our host Brandon calls, leaning his head into the kitchen, "table twenty." I let out a sigh, knowing that for the next hour I'll be putting on my customer service voice, rushing to keep drinks filled, and probably getting tipped less than fifteen percent.

I make my way over to the round table in the back corner of the restaurant, pulling out my pen and server book. I always make sure to have it ready before I get there for the kinds of people who like to ramble off their orders before I've even introduced myself. I find that so annoying. I know this is a transaction and you're just here for the food, but damn can we at least pretend to care about each other for a moment?

This wasn't that kind of table though. They were friendly, and little did I know we'd be getting much more friendly as the night went on. There were two men and two women, couples, I had initially assumed. The first was a blonde man, honestly pretty attractive. You can he works out on the regular. Sitting next to him is the type of woman who would have thousands of Instagram followers. Tan skin, voluptuous curves, heavy makeup more suitable for a club, and wearing a shirt provocatively low and a skirt dangerously short. In short, she's hot and she knows it. There'sone more man at the table, but to be totally honest there's just nothing noteworthy about him. My eyes are drawn to the woman sitting next to him. Long, light brown wavy hair that reaches her waist, piercing blue eyes, and a cute button nose that turns up at the end. She isn't beautiful in the same way as her friend. She has a natural beauty to her. Something in her energy that's drawing me to her. Something in her energy that makes my brain fire off, "Gay! She's Gay!"

It isn't because of what she wore that clues me in, there's no flannel shirt or any other stereotype in sight. She's wearing a light blue long sleeve shirt, jean shorts, and flip flops. Nothing that outwardly said "lesbian." But in the time since leaving my small hometown I've developed what is commonly known as a "gaydar." A pretty good one at that. A few weeks before I had taken one look at my new coworker and instantly thought "bisexual," and I turned out to be right. My gaydar doesn't work so well with men, however. It took me an embarrassingly long time to figure out that Ron was gay, and even longer to find out that he was engaged to our other obviously gay server, Matt. Perhaps my inability to pinpoint a man's sexuality is simply because I don't care. I have no interest in dating them, so why would I have any interest in whether they would want to date me?

With women though, I find it easy. Sometimes it's in the way that they dress (some stereotypes are hilariously true), but it doesn't always have to be that way. I just get a feeling. Like I can read her energy and think "Yep. She likes pussy." I truly do impress myself sometimes.

"Hi! How are ya'll doing tonight," I ask in a cheerful tone. My introduction is the same at every table. I follow a script I've made for myself. I ask how they're doing, they say "good, how are you," I say I'm great, tell them my name, and collect drink orders. Quick and easy. As I write down their preferred beers I find myself making eye contact with the girl with the wavy hair. Each time I look away I can't seem to stop myself glancing back at her, like she has some kind of gravitational pull on me. She gives me a slight smile and I blush, looking back down at my server book.

"Alright," I say as I turn to walk away, "I'll get those drinks right out for you!"

"Oh, could we also get some chips and queso," the blonde man calls out.

"Of course!" I don't need to write that down. That's easy to remember.

My head is swimming as I punch their drink orders into the computer. Two Coronas, a Michelob, and a Bud Light, all bottled. Most people prefer it on draft, but to be honest I don't really understand the allure of beer at all. People say it's an acquired taste, but if it tastes terrible the first time you drink it, why would you want to acquire that taste?

My mind isn't really on the beer though, it's on her. The way her lips turned up a bit as she looked up at me beneath her eyelashes. She isn't wearing a lot of makeup, just some eyeliner and a bit of mascara, but she doesn't need any. Her skin is smooth, her light complexion clear, with a natural blush to her cheeks. I don't even know her name and she has already consumed my thoughts.