I had done it a hundred times.


“Back.”

“Behind.”

“On your right.”


It was second nature, just a part of working back of house at a restaurant with tight spaces.


With your crew you move as a unit, like a school of fish communicating to each other in short and simple terms. It’s a beautiful thing to be part of, organized chaos, quick movements within your station and that sense of communication through energies. Anticipating every move from your fellow workers and always being a step ahead. A game of chess where you’re all on the same team against the clock.


This time, as I skillfully passed by him, I let my left hand gently slide across his back as I said, “behind”, soft enough so that only he could hear. My hand found its place on the small of his back as I reached around him with my right to grab a cup of pasta, portioned for him to drop into the boiling water. A sneaky smile crept onto my face as I sensed his nervous system shift, then I glided back to his left to help prepare a different dish for service.


I glanced over at him for a quarter of a second and saw him ponder what had just happened before dropping the pasta into the water, looking at an incoming ticket and saying, “one meatball sub”.


“Heard… Hands!”


Zed, one of my favorite coworkers, came to grab the finished dish and run it out.



Control. 



How fun it is to have control. I thought about this while I gently placed three meatballs into a bun, drowned them in sauce, sprinkled them with cheese and slid them into the mini oven above my station.


The rest of the shift passed uneventfully, other than my spinning brain as I fired subs, prepped plates and grated cheese in the loving chaos of my coworkers. This happens often, an infatuation that gets to the point where I sneak in a touch. And that part is just so goddamn fun. 


Closing duties came round and our manager went out to buy a 12 pack of beer for us to drink while cleaning our stations and leaving everything ready for the opening crew.


“Syd, can you help me with the fryer?”


I looked up from polishing the oven and met Ted’s peaceful, but intense blue eyes. I kid you not this man looked like a young Leo Dicaprio. There was a swagger to him I couldn’t pin down, his hair was perfectly trimmed so that a bit of his wavy blond locks fell onto his forehead. The tattoos on his arms were minimal and drew my attention to his intentionally shaped biceps. It almost made me mad, how perfect he was. He was short, but I could look past that. I could love a short king.


“Yeah,” I said as I got up and brushed my oversized pants off from being on the ground.


Cleaning the fryer was a bitch, but it forced us to be close, so I didn’t mind. We each held one side of our biggest stock pot up to the drain nozzle of the fryer. “Ready?” He looked into my eyes and I let out a half laugh, “As I’ll ever be.” 


“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad,” he smiled and turned the nozzle to let the oil come flooding out. There were always a few splashes in the beginning that would jump at our skin and leave us with small burns. As the pot got heavier and heavier we had to use both our arms to steady its weight, and then finally when the drips came to a stop we set the pot down. 


He took his mitten off, and came over to where I was kneeling, wiping the excess oil from the nozzle. He held out his hand to help me up. He knew I didn’t need it. “Thanks” I took his hand. “Thank you.” And we let our touch linger, maybe half a second longer than it had to, maybe not. Sometimes in these moments of infatuation I allow my mind to alter its perception.


The days went by and the moments of closeness grew. Ted started making me surprise lunches during our shift, and I would bring him books of poetry that I thought he might enjoy. He returned them filled with sticky notes. His thoughts plastered onto them. My books imbued with his energy. Soft.



“Syd, can you help me open this fucking thing, I don’t have the fingernails for it.” He was holding a can with a pull tab on it and looking defeated.


“Umm, neither do I!” 


“What are you talking about, you’re a girl!”


“What does that have to do with anything?” I couldn’t help but laugh as I held up my hands for him to see. “I keep these fuckers trimmed!” But still I went over and helped, finally using a knife to wedge the pull tab open.


I was feeling like shit that day and Ted could tell.


“What’s up?”


“No, I’m fine, my cramps are just fucking killing me today and I don’t have any drugs.”


“Period cramps?” Zed peeked in from his pastry station, “I had the worst fucking period cramps before I transitioned, dude. I don’t carry Midol around anymore, obviously.” Then he let out one of his famous Zed laughs. It sounded like a young robert de niro trying to hide his laughter, it came out in little snickers that I couldn’t help but giggle at every time. It made me feel better.


I shook my head in resigned laughter and Ted looked at me softly, “I’m sorry dude, that sounds shitty… can I make you a sweet treat?”


“You’re the best.” I blew him a kiss.


Apparently he had found some frozen strawberries in the freezer a couple of months ago and had been thinking about a drizzle he could make for our gelato, so he got to work. It was the middle of summer and all of the sorority girls were gone for the university break, they were our main customers.The restaurant was dead.


I hoisted myself onto the counter while I watched him get a sautee pan, add some berries and sugar, and turn the heat to medium high. He shot me a sly smile and I pursed my lips when I met his gaze. I was having fun.


“Maybe we can add some mystery peaches, I think there’s some of those in there too,” I hopped off the counter and slowly made my way to the freezer.


“I hate peaches.”


I let out a scoff, “You and Zed, both peach haters.”


The comment changed his body language. He loosened his grip on the spoon, and turned to look at my eyes, “me and Zed have a lot more in common than you might like.”


I contemplated the comment for a second and looked at the strawberries in the pan, bubbling in a sticky sugary mess, but I had known for some time. Actually I had known since that first time I let my hand glide across his back and felt the bindings on the parallel of his chest.


“You know, your identity doesn’t change the way I feel, right? And if it makes you feel better, I’m bi.”


I looked over and smiled at him. He looked shocked, but pleasantly so, and shook his head in lightless disbelief as he went to turn back to the work at hand. I laughed, nudged my shoulder against his and turned as I grabbed the bag of strawberries to put them back in the freezer.