Chapter 1: The Menu Between Us
The cream menu was heavier than it looked. Thick stock with an embossed crest at the top, the cursive printed underneath catching the chandelier light. I had it open in both hands, angled toward the table so the woman in red could see it, and the man in the black three-piece suit was leaning so close I could see the silver pocket chain catch and swing against his vest.
That was the contradiction that stuck. Everything in the dining room was supposed to be polished and distant — white tablecloths, crystal, the soft blur of other tables behind us, servers trained to keep a half-step back. But he wasn't keeping distance. He was shoulder-to-shoulder with me at the edge of table six, his beard close enough that I could smell his cologne, his eyes not on the menu at all. He was at his peak, relaxed, amused, like this was his room. I was on probation, three weeks in, rent due on the first, and I couldn't afford to flinch.
My name is the one he was about to ask for.
It was just past eight. The dinner rush had filled the main room at LOCATION_X and the warm light from the arches made every glass shine. I was on table six because Marissa had called in and Luis had shifted me over without asking. The woman in the deep red satin dress sat with her diamond teardrop necklace centered perfectly, chandelier earrings brushing her neck, hands folded near the gold-rimmed plate. The clear water bottle and the wine glass were untouched in front of her. The man stood beside her chair, one hand braced on the table edge, the other hovering near my wrist as I held the menu.
I started reading because that's what you're supposed to do when they point and hesitate. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. I kept my eyes down on the cursive, tried to sound steady, Parisian even though my French was from two years of community college and phonetic memorization. I read what was there.
"Chateau Laffertoti, Pali Pali, film section tine 2."
I heard how garbled it sounded as soon as it left me. It wasn't right, I knew it wasn't right, but the letters swam — the crest, the tight script, the low light — and I pushed through it anyway because stopping would have been worse. He didn't correct me. He let me finish and then he said it, low and clear, as if he was giving me the proper version.
"Etienne Dujeunest Stort."
I didn't know if that was a name, a wine, a joke. The woman's smile tightened. Her eyes flicked from him to me and back, and her mouth opened just a fraction. She wasn't smiling anymore. The diamonds at her throat caught when she swallowed. She gave a small, soft laugh at first, the kind you do when you think someone else will laugh and make it okay, but no one did. The air between the three of us got too still. I could hear my own breathing.
He shifted his weight and closed the distance another inch. I closed the menu without thinking — a neat, practiced snap — and brought it down to my side, both hands now gripping that thick cream stock. The embossed crest pressed into my palm. It was supposed to be a reset, a way to move to the next part of service: I'll give you a moment, I'll be back with water. But he didn't let that happen. He looked straight at me, not at the table, not at her. The chandeliers made a sharp shine on the silver chain against his black shirt and tie.
I realized then he wasn't ordering. He was waiting to turn the ordering into something else. My chest went tight. I thought about Luis watching from the server station, about the floor manager's eyes flicking over when a table stalls, about how you're supposed to keep the service moving no matter what. I thought about how saying the wrong thing, or the right thing in the wrong tone, could be written up. I told myself to keep my face blank the way I'd practiced in the break room mirror.
He held the eye contact. The woman in red glanced quickly between us, her brows pulled together, her lips parted like she wanted to say something but didn't know where it would land. Her hand moved slightly on the tablecloth, toward her water glass, then stopped.
Then he said it.
May you like
"Your name?"
I didn't answer. I stood there with the closed menu held tight at my side, his question hanging in that warm, too-quiet circle around table six, the woman staring at me with open concern and him still leaning in waiting, and the whole dining room continuing soft and blurred behind us.
