“Absolutely. I’ll be right back.” Suddenly I can’t wait to get him out of my restaurant. That’s a very sad thought to have about any guest. But we had a rapport, subtle as it was. It worked for us. If he’s not a local, who knows how long it might take him to come back. I need that rapport to give him something to remember us by. Or, at least, something to not forget us by. It’s the cornerstone of the service industry.
With the exception of that sea otter at the bar and J.C.’s single four-topper of women finishing up, the restaurant is pretty much done for the day. What a lousy haul, but I can’t say I haven’t been entertained. Or that I haven’t done my job. I swipe the card and print the ticket, slipping it into the cleanest billfold I can find at the station to bring it back to the table.
He watches me walk up, the final opportunity I’ll get to make an impression of confidence and competency. I stand as tall as my frame will allow and bend stiffly at the waist when he reaches for the billfold.
“It has been an absolute pleasure, sir,” I intone without a shred of Castro to be heard. I doubt it makes a difference in his mind this late in the game, but I try anyway.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” he replies. “Thanks for suffering me.” Self-deprecating to the last, the lovable cad. I remind him to please come back again before turning back towards the bar and appearing to have a menial side task. Out of the corner of my eye I watch him stand, brush himself off with those big white paws, fill out the book and walk straight over to the bathroom.
I have no tables. I have to pee. Everything except what Aeden thinks.
I’m back over at the table with my paw hovering over the half-closed billfold, propped open by the pen shoved into its spine. The card is gone, the paper signed. I know these things but I haven’t seen them. I have to pee.
My feet carry me across and between the tables to the door, which I ease open. There he is, at the urinal, just finishing up. He could have gone into the stall, but…he didn’t. He didn’t. Instead he zips up halfway before turning to see me standing like a dunce at the door with I don’t know what kind of expression on my muzzle.
If I don’t move, that rapport I worked so hard to establish will be ruined. No one needs to eat alone.
“I left the check on the table,” he says. “It should—”
“Shut up.”
***
Just a little teaser snippet from "Lip Service," my contribution to Heat #11, which is available for preorder from the Sofawolf website, and immediate pickup at Anthrocon this weekend, if you're going!
Illustrations by
\n\t\t\t\t\tomariicon, who did a wonderful job researching the location (a real restaurant I frequent) and illustrating my palm civet Than and his polar bear diner, as well as others.