broadway malady really spoke to me. it said "more waiter!brain!.
It is not often that you choose to paraphrase the words of Garfield the Cat.
But you are a waiter, working in the most expensive restaurant in Burbank, if not all of California, and people are constantly judging you and your appearance (chubby, albinistic, and you don't look good in ties) and you've dropped three cups this shift already and the lady over there keeps ordering a metric fucking ton of olives and you
really
really
fucking hate Mondays.
Ah yes, table 13 want drinks. The obnoxious thespian table. Sometimes you really hate theatre kids. You yourself are a theatre kid, but you don't see how this is relevant.
You're not actually supposed to be serving table 13, but Katie has in true Katie style swanned off somewhere and left you to do all the work (and boy does she do that a lot) so apparently it's up to you. You take the tray and slide over to the table with the fakest smile you've ever put on in your life, and you set it down with the customary "alright-guys-everything-ok-that's-good-enjoy" that comes with this job, and you decide for the millionth time that day that considering how expensive the menu for this place is, you really, really do not get paid enough.
You take a quick look at them. They're all in suits, but you notice some flyers on the seat and someone's phone has a photo up. Ah yes, opening night for Mice. The most obnoxious, Lloyd-Webber esque musical since Lloyd-Webber himself. Is he dead? He might be dead. You don't care. His stuff is annoyingly samey. You privately think you could do much better.
One of them's staring at you.
You evaluate his appearance. Obnoxiously pink hair. Slightly freckled. You're not sure if that's make up or not. His hair is frizzy and he's what you would probably describe as "vaguely tanned" because you can't think of a more politically correct way to phrase it.
He's wearing a blue tux and suddenly he smiles and you notice his teeth are awkward.
"That's lovely." He says. "Thank you." He sounds like he's about to say something else, but someone jumps in with "Stop giving the poor man bedroom eyes."
Everyone laughs and you manage an awkward, embarassed chuckle before you leave.
(To recap, you hate Mondays. And theatre kids.)
Eventually, they leave. You smile until they're out of the door and then you sigh and make your way over to clean up their table.
There are lemons everywhere. Have they been throwing them? You curse to yourself as you pick up the soggy bits of fruit and drop them on the tray and fucking hell do you hate theatre kids. You clear the table and take the tray to the kitchen and then come back for the receipt.
They tip you $30, you see. You're very grateful. That's far far more than you usually get (you remember one memorable occasion where you got a dollar and "lose some weight" written on it) and you can almost put up with how irritating they were for tha-
Oh.
Someone's written their phone number on the receipt.
You stare at it a little more and your heart starts thudding. This has to be a joke. There's no way this is legit. But it looks like an actual number, not like a scam line or anything, and right under the SERVER: Brian part is written (in barely legible font) "cute name".
You raise an eyebrow at this but decline to comment, even to yourself. You simply pocket the receipt and continue working
and pay no mind to the fact that you barely concentrate on anything else for the entire day.
Great.
When you get home you shower and change into something more comfortable and then you stare at the receipt you pulled out of your pocket. You turn it over a few times, debating to yourself.
Should you?
It's been a while since anyone's had even any romantic (or otherwise? You doubt it. You're not exactly attractive.) interest in you. You expect it's a set up, but.
No harm could come of it?
You text the number before you can change your mind.
[Who is this?]
Short and to the point.
You put your phone down and continue staring at the reciept. The handwriting is sort of loopy, and slightly unorganised. Under the number is "Call me :)"
Your phone vibrates and you jump. You swallow, and lean over, unlocking it with shaky hands.
[depends who's asking!]
You are not in the mood for this.
[I'm a waiter. Someone wrote this number on the receipt for their order. If this is some kind of sick prank, by all means let me know.]
There. That should do it. You put your phone down and fold the receipt, putting it back in your pocket. Your phone vibrates again.
[the cute one? with the white hair? :D]
You huff.
[My hair is indeed white. The rest of that sentence is debatable.]
His replies are fairly swift after that.
[well i thought you were cute uwu did you say it was brian?]
[Technically, that was the reciept.]
[killjoy. ]
You frown a bit because he's just texted you a love heart and you've only been talking to him for about fifteen minutes.
He texts you again, evidently persistent.
[i'm the one in blue with the hair :)! call me pinky! zort]
You don't want to ask what an zort is.
[Zort?]
Fuck it.
[it's a word O:]
[Are you sure? It sounds more like nonsense.]
[it's a very versatile word! haha. narf.]
You decide not to chase this subject further.
[What's your actual name?]
Beep.
[i don't really want to tell you that. O: ]
[You wrote your number on a receipt. You know my name. I don't see the harm in my knowing yours.]
It takes him a while to respond after that. You use the time to make something to eat. You're halfway through your pasta when your phone vibrates.
[crispin. pinkerton. though i'd much rather be called pinky! :X]
You decide not to ask him who would name their child Crispi-
Bzzt.
Oh.
[do you work fridays?]
Oh god.
[Why do you want to know.]
Your palms are starting to sweat a little.
[because you're cute and i'm single! poit. ;) and friday is a nice day for that sort of thing. ouo]
You drop your phone.
Jesus christ, no. No. You bury your face in your hands and pray this is not happening.
Bzzt.
[you are single aren't you? i'm sorry if i came off too strong. :(((]
You are not going on a date with this man, you tell yourself. Firstly, he's not your type. He is male. You have known him five minutes. He sounds like a total psychopath, you're straight (and also ace, probably, you're not sure) and quite frankly
[I'm single. And I don't work Fridays.]
And quite frankly that was the stupidest thing you've ever done.
He texts you a [:D!] and you mentally hit your head against a metaphorical wall before he texts his second reply.
[one thirty? same restaurant? though we probably can't eat there again O: it's rather pricey if you don't mind my saying! zort.]
You chuckle.
[I am aware. I work there.]
It takes a while for him to text back.
[is it a date?]
You pause, and consider this.
[I suppose.]