Soliloquies Anthology 31

La Mademoiselle looked like a wooden dollhouse beneath Saturday’s night sky. Strings of fairy lights framed the front windows, their golden glow spilling across the pinkish-red façade and softening the building’s crooked edges. Beside the entrance, a chalkboard advertised the plat du jour in looping white cursive, while white wooden chairs sat scattered across the patio, their paint chipped in places from years of rain and careless customers. Inside, artificial vines dangled from the ceiling, winding around strands of warm lights bathing the beige banquettes and mismatched wooden chairs. Heavy velvet curtains draped around the kitchen pass; the tables had been cleared, the cutlery neatly arranged, and the dining room sat in a peaceful lull that made the place almost seem romantic. The air smelled of freshly baked yeasty dough and cinnamon, strong enough to evoke the comforting image of cinnamon rolls cooling on a windowsill.

Funny, considering cinnamon rolls had never once appeared on La Mademoiselle’s menu. Then again, the restaurant had always been better at selling illusions than anything else.

After coming here a few times, anybody could tell that the velvet curtains were polyester, that half the chairs wobbled if you leaned too far left, and that the supposedly homemade Crème Brûlée arrived in frozen bags every week, ready to be thawed and served. Bland didn’t even begin to describe its taste.

Franklin was well aware of that. When he applied for the line cook position, he’d been thrilled, but the letdown came quickly when he first tasted the food. Everything tasted as though it had been diluted with water, and the flavours were so timid, it was as if they were afraid of offending the other ingredients.

Franklin was dragging a damp cloth across the white marble-patterned counters, polishing away leftover greasy fingerprints when he noticed the clock above the kitchen pass read 12:15 AM. A spark of excitement danced through him; soon, he would be home, with a quiet night ahead of him and the promise of a Sunday stretching out like a freshly made bed.

God, he needed it.

The restaurant had been packed today, and the complaints came one after another, each customer seemingly determined to find something wrong with their meal: too bland, too cold; too expensive for the portion, or not at all what they expected. It didn’t help that the owners of La Mademoiselle didn’t care. All that mattered for them was that the beautifully plated dishes looked exquisite enough to photograph, even if the food itself was barely worth eating. Which was a shame, because Franklin actually gave a damn about cooking. He knew how to coax flavour out of a handful of ingredients, or how to transform an otherwise forgettable meal with something as simple as a dash of garlic.

On his second shift, Franklin made the mistake of adjusting a sauce recipe. Nothing dramatic, just a little oregano pesto to give the sauce more character. The owners had caught wind of it and summoned him for a lecture; apparently the recipes were established for a reason. There weren’t enough complaints to justify changing them, and if every cook started doing things their own way, the restaurant would lose its “signature taste.” He still wasn’t sure what signature taste they were referring to. Disappointment, perhaps. But he’d learned his lesson. Since then, he followed every recipe to the letter, even when he knew the result would be mediocre.

Every Saturday, he paid for that decision in complaints. Tonight really had been no exception, he thought as he finished putting away the last of the clean dishes. He went to tie off the garbage bags under the counter, but when he looked at them, his shoulders sank.  One bag was filled with discarded napkins and packaging; the other was heavy with half-eaten burgers, untouched beef lettuce wraps, and a mound of chicken pot pie many customers deemed unworthy after the second bite. Good food or bad, it was humiliating seeing meals he prepared thrown away like that.

Today, he was called into the dining room four times to deal with unhappy customers, which was actually a little less than usual. But still, four times he was forced to stand there and listen to people complain about food he’d been explicitly instructed not to improve. And by the fourth time, he nearly lost his temper; the last customers, an old couple, complained almost as soon as the plates hit their table, the infamous chicken pot pie at the centre of it all. They wanted Franklin to remake their meals, but unfortunately for them, the kitchen had already closed, and by the time the complaints were brought to him, the couple had eaten enough for a full refund to be out of the question.

Freddy, the server, tried to offer other options, and through the kitchen pass, Franklin saw how hard she tried to keep her smile bright even when the customers were at her neck. His heart stung for her, but eventually, she came into the kitchen and asked him to deal with them. He stepped into the dining room and was met with more shouting and self-important indignation, until he eventually got them to at least pay for half of their meals. The customers left spewing about how disgraceful the place was.

Franklin exhaled sharply through his nose, and his head jerked as if that could dislodge the memories. He grabbed his black Led Zeppelin hoodie from a kitchen cabinet, pulled it over his work shirt, shrugging his arms into the sleeves, and made his way to the kitchen pass. He drew the velvet curtains together, cutting off the narrow view into the kitchen.

He saw Freddy sweeping the floor.

“Kitchen’s clean,” he called out to her.

She lifted her head just enough to acknowledge him, giving a vague little nod. Franklin waited a second, expecting her to say something, but she simply kept drawing the broom across the floor.

He shrugged it off and disappeared back into the kitchen. A moment later, he emerged with a garbage bag in each hand, the plastic pinching his fingers, and made his way towards the front door, dropping the bags outside.

“I’m so glad today’s over,” he sighed as he passed Freddy, walking into the storage room, which doubled as the staff room.

She didn’t answer him, and when he glanced over his shoulder, he noticed her hands were hanging loosely around the broom’s handle, her shoulders slumped, and with every few sweeps she seemed to forget what she was doing altogether. She looked as though the broom weighed more than she did. His head tipped to the side; usually, Freddy was the first person to bolt once closing time rolled around. She could clean a table in seconds, sweep an entire section in the time it took him to wipe down a counter, but right now, she was awfully slow.

After picking up the handheld vacuum from the storage room, he walked toward the host stand to turn up Freddy’s work playlist, filling the otherwise quiet dining room. Then he set about cleaning the banquettes. At 192 centimetres—a fact he proudly informed Freddy of the fourth or fifth time they worked together—he was tall enough to reach the far ends of the seats without climbing onto them. Freddy, on the other hand, usually had to crawl across the cushions to get the job done. That’s why she always left him this task. He shifted his gaze towards her as the vacuum hummed beneath his hand.

He noticed she was still wearing the uniform. Normally she would be out of the faded red La Mademoiselle shirt by now, as she always complained about the uniform at least twice a shift. But now that he thought about it, she hadn’t said a word about it this evening. “Fuck’s sake, those last customers almost made me quit,” he said, trying to make conversation, sighing dramatically as Freddy swept past him. She was still silent, simply rolled her eyes, and that was it. Franklin couldn’t tell whether the eye roll was directed at him or at something in her own head. He switched off the vacuum.

“Freddy?” He asked.

She stopped, finally turning towards him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. For a few seconds, neither of them said anything. They stood facing each other in the empty dining room, and Franklin watched her, searching her face for some indication of what she was thinking. It was like looking at a puzzle with a missing piece.

Eventually, he offered her a small smile and reached for the broom. “I got it,” he said.

For a moment, Freddy kept her fingers wrapped around the handle. His fingers brushed against her knuckles as he took the broom. She let go without saying anything. She walked over to the host stand and turned the restaurant’s tablet on, probably to check off the last few tasks on the closing-shift document. Her face was illuminated by the pale glow of the screen, her lips resting in a straight line, her gaze steady and serious. Franklin watched her for another second before turning back to the floor. What the hell was going on? His eyebrows furrowed as he swept a pile of crumbs towards the dustpan.

It was like their first shift together all over again, when he barely spoke to anyone outside of the kitchen, and when his coworkers still hesitated before approaching him. But he couldn’t blame them; he had thick eyebrows, his jaw was sharp, and there was a scar across his upper lip. His eyes were a deep grey that resembled storm clouds, so it usually took a smile to show his gentle nature, when his dimples dug holes in his cheeks.

Freddy had admitted a little while ago that, during their first few shifts together, she really thought he didn’t like her as they barely spoke. He found that ridiculous at the time. He hadn’t disliked her; he barely knew her, and just didn’t know what to chat about. But she had made a point of talking to him, and eventually he started looking forward to seeing her, and how she turned the smallest inconvenience into a ten-minute comedy show. She sometimes would get so invested she’d forget what she was originally complaining about. He also loved how she believed dancing your problems away was an actual, possibly scientifically proven form of medicine, and always tried to convince him a bad day could be fixed with a little boogie.

But now, she was still and quiet, standing ten feet away from him, acting as though he were a stranger. Franklin pushed the last of the crumbs into the dustpan and emptied it into the garbage. When he straightened, he sneaked a look towards the host stand again. She looked tired, certainly, but something was unfamiliar in the way her eyebrows creased. Then the next song began playing through the restaurant speakers. Franklin recognized it immediately, and a grin tugged at his mouth. He began dancing, his movements deliberately ridiculous, all exaggerated shoulder rolls and badly timed footwork which usually sent Freddy into cramping laughter. She would tell him he looked like he was possessed or something, and then she would demonstrate a move she learned at her dance studio. Sometimes, she’d make him try it. He was always terrible at it, but that had never stopped him.

He waited for a familiar reaction, but Freddy simply stopped the music, and the sudden silence caught him mid-movement.

“Are you done?” she asked.

She finally looked at him, her expression so flat that, for a moment, he wondered whether she was talking to someone else. Franklin slowly straightened, lowering his arms, the broom still clutched in his hand.

“Uh. Yeah?” he replied.

A strange, queasy feeling now sat in the pit of his stomach. Whatever was going on, it suddenly felt personal. He tried to think of what could have happened, and he began wishing he had paid more attention to her earlier in the shift. His focus had been divided between preparing orders and trying not to lose his mind over the mounting tickets; he hadn’t had much time to check what was happening out front. So maybe he said something stupid without realizing it.

“Freddy, you okay?” He finally decided to ask, his voice coming out soft as he raised an eyebrow.

He noticed the corner of her mouth twitch downward. She pressed her lips together for a second, then opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something before changing her mind. She then waved a hand in front of herself and smiled.

“Yeah,” she replied as she flicked off the lights in the dining room.

Before he could respond, she disappeared into the storage room.

He stood in the dark dining room for another moment before following her into the storage room. The room was quiet except for the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights and the rustling of their work bags. Franklin slid his bag over his shoulder, his gaze flickering towards her. Should he ask her again? Or would that make him seem annoying? Should he leave her alone and hope she’d be back to normal the next time they saw each other? It usually was easy for him to accept that people were difficult to read; sometimes a person could be right in front of him and still feel impossibly far away.

But this was Freddy. He didn’t want to spend the next few days wondering whether he somehow ruined a connection that mattered to him. He hurried out of the storage room, its walls suddenly feeling too close, and waited by the front door for Freddy, as he always did. A few seconds later, she appeared, and they stepped outside together. The cool night breeze brushed against Franklin’s face, carrying away the cinnamon smell of the restaurant. Freddy bent to collect the garbage bags he had left beside the door, but he quickly stepped forward and took them before she could lift them.

“I’ll do it,” he said quietly.

She replied with silence.

While he carried the bags towards the garbage bin, Freddy stayed behind to set the alarm. He could hear the beeping from the keypad, followed by the click of the lock as the door shut behind her. Usually, she’d accompany him to the bins, and then they’d walk to the metro together, talking about whatever came to mind, but tonight, when Franklin came back to the front door, Freddy was already walking away.

“Freddy, wait.” He quickly reached for her arm, his fingers curling carefully around her skin as he tugged her a little closer. “What’s going on?”

“…Nothing, really.” She turned around, shaking her head, glancing back at him. “Goodnight, Franklin.” She slowly pulled her hand out of his grip, then gave a brief wave with an unconvincing smile.

“You sure I didn’t say or do something you didn’t like today?”

Her fake smile dropped. “What?” She asked.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t take care of the angry customers more today, but it was busier than usual, you know? I was stuck in the kitchen for most of the evening, and I couldn’t exactly leave everything to come out and help every time someone complained. And I know that probably made your job harder, especially with all the complaints about the food, but—”

He stopped to take a breath. The words were coming out too quickly. He could hear himself tripping over his sentences, trying to explain himself before he even knew what he was apologizing for.

“I don’t want us to be on bad terms,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Working there’s so exhausting, and you kinda became the best part about it,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “I feel sad seeing you like this, Fred.”

Freddy stared at him as the admission hung between them, suddenly more intimate than he intended. He looked away, feigning interest in the empty streets, and when he looked back again, Freddy’s arms were crossed over her chest and her eyebrows drawn together as though he just presented her with a riddle she hadn’t asked to solve.

“I’m not mad at you,” she finally said.

“Okay, then why—”

“What? I can’t be tired?” A hint of sarcasm in her voice made Franklin step back.

“Yeah, of course you can,” he answered.

“Then what’s the problem?” She lashed back.

His lips moved soundlessly; he didn’t know how to explain that there was a difference between Freddy being tired and Freddy acting as though she couldn’t stand to be around him. He didn’t know how to tell her that he’d been replaying the evening in his head, searching for some careless comment or misplaced joke that might have hurt her.

“Nothing’s the problem. I just thought—I don’t know—maybe you could’ve said something.” He finally replied.

“Could’ve said what?” Freddy let out a sigh. Under the yellow glow of the streetlight, her dark circles shadowed her eyes, while her shoulders slumped beneath her uniform, her hands gripping her upper arms.

“My feet are killing me,” she declared. “I’ve been yelled at by a bunch of tables all evening, and some old-ass lady told me I should get better at a job I’ve been doing for three fucking years all because I wouldn’t give her a refund on food she ate half of. And the owners texted me this morning saying they’ve been looking at the security cameras, and I needed to look happier when I’m working.” She laughed, but there was nothing remotely amusing about it.

“Look happier,” she repeated. “Like I’m a fucking doll they can dress up and put on display for their shitty restaurant. Like I’m not allowed to have a bad day because God forbid someone comes in here and realizes that maybe the girl serving them their overpriced trash food doesn’t actually want to be here.”

Franklin watched her, uncertain whether he should say something or let her finish. When he didn’t say anything, she continued.

“And now you’re standing here asking me what’s wrong with me because, what, I don’t feel like dancing around the restaurant with you?”

“Fred, that’s not what I—”

“I am not obligated to perform for you just because you’re sad or some shit, Franklin. This is not about you.”

Franklin still couldn’t find anything to say.

His fingers clenched tightly around his bag strap, the material digging into his palm, as the corners of his mouth drooped. He noticed the shine in Freddy’s eyes; her lower lip trembling ever so slightly, and when she turned her face away, she did it quickly, as though she didn’t want him to catch the movement.

“Okay. Goodnight, Freddy.” He whispered, his chin dipping once before he walked away from her.

The air suddenly felt colder; he drew in a slow breath, letting the crisp air fill his lungs as he heard his own footsteps, the swish of his pants, the faint hum of the city, and his heart beating like drums against his ribcage. He pressed his palms against his eyes, then dragged them down his face. He felt stupid for caring so much about this; they weren’t dating, or anything. They were just coworkers. So why was his stomach twisting itself into knots, as though he’d completely missed the point of her venting?

A brief tug on his hoodie made him freeze. He turned around and saw Freddy standing behind him, her arms hanging loosely at her sides, her shoulders trembling beneath the thin fabric of her uniform. Her eyes were red, and the carefully constructed expression she wore all evening had finally fallen apart. For a moment, neither of them spoke, until her shaky voice reached his ears.

“I’ve had such a fucking awful day,” her lips quivered as she struggled to find the right words. “I can’t—I’m so tired, and I just—it isn’t about you, Franklin.”

They stood frozen, eyes locked as Franklin’s gaze softened, his brows slowly rising. A sudden, aching guilt settled in his heart; he’d been so caught up in his own uncertainty that he hadn’t understood how much she was struggling to keep herself upright. He slowly raised his arms from his sides, and Freddy hesitantly stepped into the space between them, her forehead settling against his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her, and her hands curled into the thick fabric of his hoodie. At first, she remained stiff against him, like some part of her was still trying to hold herself together. But as he tightened his arms around her, Franklin felt her body relax against his as he heard her uneven breath and felt hot tears soaking into the soft cotton covering his chest. His palm cradled the back of her head, and only when her sobs finally slowed, he eased back, his thumbs sweeping away the tracks of her tears.

The distant hum of the city filled the silence between them. Then Franklin smiled softly, his dimples slowly digging into his cheeks, until the corners of Freddy’s lips began to rise.

He’d seen Freddy smile a hundred times, but standing here, her cheeks still stained by tears and her eyes glistening against the streetlight, she looked a bit different from the girl he was used to seeing. Being allowed to see this side of her made him fall for her even more as he brushed one last tear beneath her eye.

Before he could think of anything to say, Freddy stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him again. He was caught off guard by the sudden embrace, before folding his arms around her. He held her close, resting his cheek against the top of her head, and for a while neither of them made any effort to move.

“We really gotta leave this fucking restaurant.” He then muttered before a startled chuckle broke out of Freddy.a