Lies. Lies. Lies. That’s all my life is based on right now. They’re so deep and muddled, I’m afraid I don’t know the truth anymore, and fear that when everything comes out in the wash that my family may disown me. Yep, it’s a complete exaggeration, but the f
ear is there. Yet, it doesn’t compel me to change what I’m doing. Maybe because I keep telling myself that I need this adventure. I need this time away from the life I’m expected to live. Once I go home, I’ll never have this opportunity again.
When I worked Friday night, the Bean Song was slammed. People stood along the walls, content to stand there, waiting for a table to clear out. I served mostly wine and beer with a few sodas, I mean pops, and glasses of water thrown into the mix.
Today, it’s different. People are ordering food and I actually have to check on my tables to ensure my customers are happy. Open mic night was easy compared to this, and I’m thankful this isn’t my test because I’m fairly certain I’m failing miserably.
The Bean Song has a steady flow of traffic, and my tips are adding up nicely, although I find that people aren’t as generous with their gratuities unless they’re drinking. Must be something about letting your inhibitions go when the alcohol is flowing.
I’m with a customer when the door chimes. I look over my shoulder to greet the newcomer, something Zeke was adamant I do, when I spot the singer from the other night, the one I’m absolutely sure is Sofia’s brother.
I’m sure to make eye contact before turning back to my current table, except my mind is on Quinn and what Kellie said the other night. Kellie thinks Sofia made him up, but I’m not so sure. This guy looks exactly like the guy in her pictures, and while she referred to him as Q, it can easily be short for Quinn. In my mind, it all makes sense.
After putting in the most recent order, I grab a menu and head toward his table. His head is down, and he’s focused on his phone. The other night, the beanie he wore was black and today’s is gray, but his outfit is similar. Just staring at him, I see just how different he is from the guys back home. They’d never be caught with black military style boots on, a flannel shirt over a holey t-shirt and shorts that hang to their knees.
It seems as if my legs have stopped moving, and I stand here, with a menu in my arms, looking at this guy, somehow mesmerized by him. I don’t know what it is. It’s not like I know him from Adam.
I take that back. I’ve never had a type because I’ve always been with Roy. Roy who wears dress shirts, slacks, and ties to everything. Roy who dresses up in a tuxedo and can be as handsome as the next guy. Roy who… cheats on me and thinks it’s okay because I’m thousands of miles away and not tending to his needs.
Still, it seems that he’s unaware that I’m standing here, which is fine because it gives me more time to study him, to really look at him. His brown, almost black hair peaks out from under his beanie. My fingers twitch with an urge to feel whether it’s coarse or silky.
From where I stand, I can see his brows furrow, making me want to know if he’s sad, frustrated, or is he confused. Part of me is tempted to ask him if there’s anything I can help with. My friends have all said I’m a good listener with sage advice. But why would this man even give me the time of day? I’m a waitress, one that is assuming his identity based on pictures I’ve seen. I have no factual knowledge about him.
It’s stupid to stand here, gawking, as if he’s some specimen I’m meant to study. I approach his table because it’s my job to serve him.
He looks up as I set the menu down. “Can I start you off with something to drink?” I ask as I step back to give him space, but not without smelling the cologne he’s wearing. My throat dries, my heart races, and suddenly I’m fifteen with a schoolgirl crush. It’s ridiculous.
“Summer ale, please,” he mumbles and turns his attention back to his phone.
I smile. Not at him though because he’s not looking and head toward the kitchen.
Zeke is there, eyeing me. Did he see me falter? “You okay?” he asks.
“Fine. Perfect,” I tell him as I punch in the order for table twenty-eight and his beer.
“Quinn is one of our Friday night regulars.”
“I remember.”
Zeke nods. “He keeps to himself so don’t take his shyness as rudeness.”
Shy? How can someone who’s shy get up on stage in front of strangers? To me, that doesn’t make any sense. Don’t you have to be outgoing and charismatic to be a performer?
I remember I had to get up in front of my entire class and give a speech. I practiced for days, looking into the mirror, and speaking, making sure I used a tone that was eloquent and flawless. I nailed it, according to my professor, but was so nervous as I stood up there, knowing my classmates were looking at what I had worn that day or how I did my hair.
I’m far from shy. I’m outgoing, chatty, and exuberant when I’m having fun. So how can this shy man get up in front of a crowd and sing?
My name’s called, and once again I find myself staring at Quinn. I gather the plates I need to deliver and his bottle of beer, placing the items on a large tray. Zeke showed me how to do this earlier today, telling me it’s much easier than making two or three extra trips to the back.
Waitressing is hard. I don’t care what people say. I will never look down on someone who chooses to do this. My back already hurts, my shoulder is sore from carrying the tray, and my feet have blisters. My fault for wearing Chucks, but I thought my most comfortable pair of shoes would be my best bet. I was wrong.
“Here ya go. Would you like to order?” I ask, setting his beer down on top of a Bean Song paper coaster. Quinn has his head down and this time, instead of messing around on his phone, he’s scribbling notes onto a napkin. As much as I want to lean forward a bit and see what he’s writing, Zeke’s voice plays out in my head. He’s shy. I get it.
“A club, please.” His phone beeps, he groans. He picks it up, looks, and shuts the screen off.
“Would you like cranberry mayo on it? I hear it’s really good.”
“But you haven’t tried it?”