Chapter 2: A Name Withheld
His question hung there just long enough that I could hear the clink of a glass two tables over.
I didn't answer right away. My hand tightened around the cream menu at my side, the corner pressing into my palm. I could feel my pulse in my throat. The man in the black suit hadn't moved. He stayed leaned in, close enough that I could see the silver chain against his vest catch the chandelier light. He was smiling, but not in a kind way. It was the kind of smile that expected something back.
The woman in the red dress looked between us. Her mouth was still parted from before, and she shifted in her chair, her diamond necklace catching as she breathed.
I remembered what Marlon had told me on my second training shift. When a table gets personal, you stay professional. You give them the script. You don't give them you.
I pulled my shoulders back a fraction and found my server voice. It came out steadier than I felt.
"I'm your server this evening," I said. "I can take care of anything you need for the table."
It was the line we used for everything. It was supposed to be a wall, polite and flat.
He didn't take it as a wall. His smile widened a little. He tilted his head.
"Come on," he said. "That's not what I asked. I just wanted your name. It's a compliment. You have a nice voice when you read the menu."
He said it lightly, like it was a joke I was supposed to laugh at. He said "Chateau Laffertoti, Pali Pali" back at me, mimicking how I'd said it a minute earlier, and chuckled. "You made that sound better than I ever could."
My face got warm. I kept looking at a point just past his shoulder, at the arched mirror on the far wall, so I wouldn't have to hold his eye contact. I could feel my breathing get shallow and I made myself take a slower breath through my nose.
"I appreciate that," I said. "Would you like to start with the specials, or I can give you more time with the menu?"
I tried to keep my tone even, the way you're supposed to when someone pushes. I didn't give him a name. I didn't correct his pronunciation. I just offered the next step of service, like his question hadn't landed.
He held his position for another second, and I could tell he wasn't satisfied. His jaw shifted under his beard. He glanced down at the closed menu in my hand and then back at my face.
"You don't have to be so formal," he said. "I'm just trying to be friendly."
Before I could answer, the woman in red moved. She reached for her water glass and set her hand lightly on the edge of the table, a small, deliberate movement that drew his attention back for a second.
"Hon, let's just order," she said. Her voice was quiet and a little tight. She didn't look at me directly, she looked at him. "We should let her do her job. I'm still deciding between the two pastas."
She smiled at me then, quick and apologetic, and it wasn't the same as his smile at all. It was embarrassed. Like she wanted the moment to fold up and disappear.
He exhaled through his nose and finally straightened up, but only a little. He didn't step back away from the table.
"Fine," he said. He gestured toward her menu. "She'll have the — what was it you wanted? The second one. And I'll do the steak. Medium rare."
He didn't ask me if I needed anything written down. He didn't ask about sides or wine. He said it like he was closing a deal I'd already agreed to.
I nodded and shifted the menu to hold it against my blazer with both hands so he could see I was ready to write, even though I wasn't. My pen was still in my apron pocket.
"Of course," I said. "So one pasta, I'll confirm which one in just a moment, and one steak medium rare. I'll get that started for you."
I didn't move forward to recite specials. I didn't lean in. I took one small step back from the table, enough to put air between me and him, enough to signal that the ordering part was paused, not finished.
The woman nodded, her earrings swaying. "Thank you," she said softly.
He watched me step back and his smile thinned. He tapped his fingers once on the white tablecloth.
"You're good at that," he said. "Deflecting."
I didn't answer that. I tucked the menu a little tighter to my side and inclined my head, the way we'd been trained to do when there was nothing safe to say.
May you like
"I'll give you another minute," I said. "Just let me know when you're ready."
And then I turned, not quickly, but deliberately, and started back toward the service station with the menu still closed in my hand, feeling his eyes on my back the whole way.
