Now I put into action every gram of that rotten banana so I don't faint and can finish the work until the chef arrives. I curse every step I take until I finally get into the chef's uniform and start playing the kitchen game.
Monday morning.
Everything is going dead slow.
Waiters come by, pick up the dishes, and send them to the customers, always wearing a smile. Truth be told, I really admire them. Their hypocrisy when dealing with people is superb.
And the only "good morning" I've gotten so far came from the manager.
For everyone else in the kitchen, I'm a blank spot. Invisible. Except for Mike, the chef. Maybe he likes me. Sounds gay. Or maybe he sees the effort I put in, the relevance I have here.
Yeah. Sure.
Nice joke, huh?
That irresponsible motherfucker is banging the new waitress, and I'm the one doing the extra work. Blonde. Big tits. That old wolf had his eyes on that innocent lamb from the moment she stepped into the restaurant. It barely took him five days to nail her.
To my surprise, eight weeks so far—and they're still together.
Maybe I'm saying all this because I'm jealous.
Wait.
I am jealous.
I've been single forever. Twenty-two years so far, and I've never seen a girl naked except the ones on a screen. If this keeps going, I'll have to explain to my mother why the neighbors think I'm gay…
…or maybe deeply religious.
Hahahaha.
Now I grab the pan, and the magic starts.
I find it really odd how my body responds to heat and flavors. Ever since I watched Ratatouille, something clicked. My skills aren't overpowered or anything—but it's similar. I can picture the result before mixing the flavors. With fewer ingredients, I can still get an excellent result.
I've tested it at home.
But I don't dare show it in this shithole.
If that manager finds out what I can do, I swear he'll never let me leave this kitchen.
So I keep a low profile.
Time goes by.
When I look at the clock, it's already 12 p.m.
And there he comes—the man of the moment. Covered in hickeys.
Lucky bastard.
"Hey, Lin Fen, how you doing?" he says. "You learn something so far, watching Big Brother work?"
And he slaps the blonde's ass.
By the way, her name is Trixie.
Yes, yes, Big Brother. I admire your lack of shame. How can an old man try to grasp young grass? I'd be ashamed, I say, full of mockery.
"Ashamed my ass," he snaps, pissed.
Lucky for me, I hear the manager bark:
"You idiot. Hurry up. There are five orders on the line to be delivered."
Flawless timing.
"Yes, yes. Going right now."
I take the chance to escape before the old man gets an embolism.
I have to admit, I don't dislike the delivery job that much. Yeah, sure, I have to wear this yellow vest—but once I'm on the road, looking for the optimal route, playing hard to catch with security cameras…
…it's actually quite fun.
I check the addresses.
Four deliveries are nearby. The last one crosses the city, heading into a middle–high Cypress Condominium.
That's weird.
Those people are known for being uptight. Ordering from this place? Someone must have a strange complex. A kinky taste.
Jajaja.
Since I'm crossing the city anyway, I text the old man who always gives me extra jobs delivering the liquor he brews.
Hi there, Mr. Yule. Any task for today?
I was about to call you, rascal. Come by and pick up a special delivery. It's headed for the Cypress Condominium.
Perfect.
That's fortunate. I'm heading there anyway. On my way.
I deliver the first four orders, then pick up the whiskey. Brewed from a complex mix of wood and high-quality corn.
A fine bourbon.
I'm not a big drinker—I've just learned a thing or two doing this extra job.
Then I head toward the Cypress Condominium on the restaurant's old scooter.
As I get closer, the scenery changes completely. Big trees. Clean sidewalks. People in expensive daily clothes walking dogs that probably cost more than half a year's paycheck.
I'm sure their pets eat better than I do.
The entrance is impeccable. Organized. You can tell that if you live here, you're someone people look up to.
I park the scooter and walk to the security post.
That's when I see her.
Impeccably dressed. High heels. Pastel colors.
She looks at me and frowns.
"Fried rice?"
"I—no. My name is Lin—"Oh. Wait.
"Yes, yes. Fried rice. Right here," I reply, clumsy as hell.
She frowns again when she notices the bourbon.
"I also ordered a bourbon like that one. From Mr. Yule's shop."
"Oh—sorry," I say. "Since the restaurant and Mr. Yule's place are close, I handled the delivery."
I hesitate, then add:
"May I ask that the young madam not report this to the restaurant?"
The last thing I need is someone telling that stupid manager what I'm doing with the restaurant's scooter.
She looks me up and down—from my shoes to my head.
Then she smiles faintly.
"Okay," she says. "I won't say anything…"
A pause.
"…if you agree to something."
I frown and unconsciously cover my chest.
"Miss, it's the first time we've met. At least you could take me to dinner first."