On the colors we can't see

Why do we always insist on standing in the way of our own happiness?

Is it so we can continue to have something to gripe about? Are we so afraid of contentment, thinking if we got to the end of the rainbow then the quest would be over? Perhaps it’s the belief that if we held our own happiness firmly in our grip, we simply wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves! The ridiculousness of our own psyches that psychs us out of tangible and lasting joy… What a species!

I’ve just got my badge on at the start of my shift when I catch Stevie frantically waving me over to reception; party of 4, by the looks of it a double date.

“Here’s your waiter now,” Stevie hands me over, “and he will see to your requirements this evening. Have a pleasant meal; you’re in very good hands.”

Showing the patrons to my section, I almost trip myself over that last bit. Why is that turd ball Stevie acting like… well, a decent guy all of a sudden?

“I’m telling you he won,” The lighter-skinned lady at the front is piping on, “they announced after people had stopped watching.”

“Kyoka, Becky, why were you still watching you?” her taller, husky-voiced galpal quizzes, waving me closer as she takes her seat. “Can I get a tonic with lime?”

“Eh and bring me a bottled water…Andrew what do you want?” the fair-skinned Becky asks her heavy set date who’s finishing up a phone call, stalling her with his hand gestures but she’d rather not wait. “Get him a Tusker.”

“I’ll have one too but make sure it’s from the fridge,” the second gentleman orders, finally able to loosen his bright yellow tie (I’m guessing an embarrassing birthday gift from the wife) and roll his sleeves up at the end of a long day in… hmmm… I’m gonna guess corporate finance.

“But Della, you know this one sat on my remote,” Becky chides, leaning playfully towards her date, doing her best to distract him from his still running phone conversation. “I had to keep watching.”

“Us we didn’t even watch,” Della’s slight hint at regret is missed by no one, “Kevin and his brother were watching that Transporter movie… again.”

Kevin smoothly transcends the poke in his direction and looks suddenly but non-threateningly in my direction, sending a silent prompt my way.

“So,” I kick myself into gear, “one tonic with lime, bottled water and two Tuskers?”

“Cold ones, please” Kevin reminds me, gentle once more. The guy’s polite, I’ll give him that.
“Babe, won’t your phone call end?” I hear Becky plead as I head off to the bar area, checking my watch but then realizing I have no idea what day it is anyways thus no way of being sure Christina will be on until I turn the corner and through the swinging doors-

“Hey, smooth criminal,” the lovely Christina teases from behind the bar.

“First of all, if you don’t like Michael Jackson, something’s wrong with YOU not me,” I slide over my drink order. “How’s the drunkard’s nest today?”

“Busy,” she’s popping and pouring with the agility of a circus performer, expressly lining the drinks up on a tray without missing a beat. “And no one said I don’t like Michael Jackson!”

“You did, you said that!” I’m incredulous as she slides the tray towards me then flips back to the counter, processing the multitude of orders at her behest. “Wow you really are busy.”

Without ever looking up, Christina calls after me, “You better not abandon me tonight.”

“Who else would I talk to? Stevie?” I catch her wild cackle as I back through the swinging doors and head to my section, silently glad to have Christina in this career graveyard of a job. No one ever intends to work at a restaurant all their lives, not as a waiter or bartender anyways, but Christina’s been here at least 2 years longer than my own 18 months which is the longest I know of- besides Stevie, of course, that butt kisser. In some ways though, Christina’s the only reason I’m still at this restaurant. I mean, I know she has a boyfriend and she sees me more as a brother or cousin, but… I don’t have a lot going for me even outside this restaurant and Christina… well, she makes my day whenever I see her.

“At least 3 years in,” straight-laced Della’s declaring when I return with the drinks.

“3 years, woman?” Kevin chuckles into his foaming glass. “While we’re doing what all that time?’

“No kids for the first 3 years!” Della reaffirms, staring her date down, not blinking once.

“Perfectly rational,” seems Andrew’s phone call finally ended. “I imagine Della envisages the formative years as crucial foundation building; laying the ground in terms of security and emotional maturity such that when the offspring arrives, it’s into a healthy, welcoming environment.”

Della’s nodding her head all through the eloquent Andrew’s little elaboration as if he’s simply repeating what she just said. Kevin seems ill-equipped for a comeback but Andrew’s gaze never leaves his own date, as if speaking directly to Becky who’s doing her best to seem unimpressed.

“You can never be prepared enough!” Kevin insists after some thought, running his hand across the menu as if reading Braille.

“Ah, you you’re just stubborn!” Della surmises, insisting on sharing her date’s menu even though there’s one laid out right in front of her. “How hot is this Calamari chicken?”

“Depending on your specific request madam, it’s anywhere from medium to red hot,” I can’t lie about these things; during training we’re handed an entire booklet of phrases that convey vaguely accurate descriptions of each menu item without discouraging their consumption. It’s a legal thing.

“What do you think, Becky?” Andrew tends to his date.

“Urrrrrrrrrrr,” Becky eyes her menu with some hostility. “I don’t want anything too spicy.”

“No, I was referring to the discussion about when the suitable time to have children is.”

“Oh!” her eyes narrow mischievously. “That’s an easy one: when things with the mother in law are too crazy, it’s time to pop one out!”

The two ladies high five each other giggling; Kevin rolls his eyes back and shrugs but Andrew beams this mystifying smile Becky’s way, almost as if he’s proud of her, like she’s passed some kind of test. What the hell?

“You man,” Kevin shakes his head in commiseration, “you would never handle that one.”

“As if you can handle me!” Della asserts with all the attitude you’d expect.

“I got you to marry me, didn’t I?” Kevin bravely counters.

“Ha, poor sweetie,” Della sinisterly rubs her husband’s shoulder, “I simply LET you think that was your idea! Gotcha!”

More high fives and cackles between the ladies and the look on Kevin’s face as he contemplates the possibility that he was tricked into marriage- priceless! He takes a rather large gulp of his beer and that seems to get him back on track.

“My man,” he signals me, “let me get number 12 but with extra cheese. And another Tusker, thanks guy.”

“Get me the Calamari chicken but tell the chef I don’t like hot things,” Della hands over the menu. If you don’t like hot things then why would you order… arrrrrrgggggh!

But I smile and say, “I’ll ask him to keep it as mild as he possibly can.”

“I’ll just have a number 14, thanks, with a number 7 on the side.” Andrew hands me his menu and then it’s all eyes on the noticeably distant Becky.

Insulated from the pressure on her, Becky languidly fingers through the menu as her companions politely sip their drinks in silence, giving her space to make the critical decision of what she’s going to have for supper. It has to be a full 4 minutes of quiet before she finally folds the menu, handing it off to me with that most irksome of instructions: “Just get me something nice. No cheese.”

I start to lose my shit but this is a battle I’ve never won before and there’s too many red flags on my chart this month to risk it over this so instead I grit my teeth and bow out, not even inquiring about starters.

Doesn’t matter; no one in this town ever has starters.

As I head back to the bar, dropping my order off at the kitchen first, I can’t help but reflect on the mood change in the previously bubbly Becky who seemed to lose all interest in her date once she managed to get him off the phone. It’s possible I missed something when I left to get the drinks earlier but there’s a very conspicuous shift in her demeanor.

“You didn’t miss anything,” Christina sets me straight over at the bar, catching a well deserved breath amidst the Friday night rush. “Girls are just like that sometimes; we want your attention only while we can’t have it.”

“What the fuck?” I’m puzzled.

“Look, it’s really not even a conscious thing,” she defends. “It’s like when you’re starving, all you can think about is hitting the jackpot, right? But if someone gave you shs 100m, you wouldn’t be so interested in money anymore, would you?”

“Hell yeah I would!”

She tosses a cloth at my head playfully, “You’re saying that cos you’ve never had that kind of money, Thriller.”

“Seriously? You’re just gonna keep calling me M.J. songs? How many do you even know, hater?”

“Man in the mirror, Bad, Jam… neh neh neh neh neh,” she’s humming to herself trying to recall the lyrics, “ neh neh they don’t really care about us!”

I love how proud of herself she is, beaming her gorgeous smile as she points a triumphant finger in my direction. “Wow, you really can’t sing, can you?”

“Shut up,” she laughs, getting up to handle the mixed race couple that’s checked in at the bar.

“At least we can confirm your other name is NOT Aguilera,” I keep poking but all Christina can do is shoot me wicked stares as she tends to the Muzungu and his clearly rented date. I head back through to the dining area via the kitchen for my first of 3 rounds delivering the meals to the table.

On the first trip, the topic of conversation is something to do with redeeming unused vouchers won in some kind of TV competition.

On the second trip, they’re talking about rock music on TV series; I almost drop a bowl of vegetable rice when Kevin suggests Boston Legal has the best soundtrack on TV but his wife is quick to correct him over the fact that someone who only watches 3 TV shows (24, Prison Break and Boston Legal) doesn’t belong in this discussion.

“So I’m not allowed to take you to a Jazz show just cos I don’t like jazz music?” Andrew’s inquiring as I set his steaming duck egg curry before him on my third and final trip. (At least for the main course).

“No Andy,” Becky’s switched to wine now and is back to flirtatious. “You can’t take me to a jazz show because I’m an engaged woman.”

Woah, I couldn’t have called that but Andrew doesn’t bat an eyelid.

“Yes but WHY are you engaged, Becky? That’s the more intriguing quandary.” Clearly these 2 are playing at something I can’t quite figure out.

“What does that mean?” Becky chews delightedly into her crunchy Conch Fritters (my pick). “Because I want to get married.”

“And that’s it, isn’t it? You could have said you were engaged because you’re in love with the fellow-”

“Of course I love him!”

“You love what he symbolizes, Becks,” Andrew shakes his head, “you love that he’s closer to what your parents envisioned for you.”

“Closer than you!” Becky goes on the offensive and her date momentarily backs down.

“Closer than me,” he repeats, taking a melancholy swig of his tusker.

“Wait I don’t get it,” Kevin cuts in.

‘Kk!” his wife chides but Kevin’s on his 3rd bottle.

“No seriously… what… how is Victor more suitable?” Kevin insists, cheese lining the corner of his mouth. “I mean, I’ve only seen you guys together that one time at Rodney’s bbq that time but… And I don’t mean this in a gay way but Andy’s awesome!”

“Thanks buddy,” Andrew chuckles.

“Sweetie… Kk, enough!” Della’s embarrassed enough for the both of them but Kevin’s on a roll here.

“No, no, seriously I mean this guy has a cool job, girls like him, he... he’s tall, I don’t know anyone who talks like him but it sounds like one of the bad guys in a James Bond movie which is cool…” Kevin’s voice just kind of fades out after that.

“But why aren’t you with Andrew?” Della flips the script suddenly, smiling naughtily.

“What? Now you’re on their side?” Becky sounds truly wounded.

“Becky darling you know we’ve been sisters since teenie days and I love you, sweetie, I really do, but I’ve been around you and Victor-”

“Eeeeeh, Della! You girl you can chuck!”

“No bambi, I know you love Victor, he’s an amazing guy, but…” Della and Kevin now stare expectantly at the slightly tipsy and under attack Becky who turns doe-eyed to her date for support.

“You’re just going to leave me on blast here?” she pleads.

Then Andrew does something I don’t quite understand; it’s not his actions that confuse me but his motivation to do what he does. You see in this moment he has her, anyone in this restaurant observing carefully enough can see that he has her, that he’s the one she really wants to be with and backed into this corner by her nosey friends, she’s a second away from admitting it.

Which is why I’m confused by Andrew letting her off the hook.

“It’s a tribal thing, guys,” Andrew smiles warmly across the table at Becky.

“A tribal thing,” Becky giggles, relieved at the tension easing up.

“Ha! A tribal thing!” Kevin laughs then backs up. “Wait, but you guys are the same tribe, right?”

“Well, only technically,” there’s a sneaky smirk on Andrew’s face. “There’s the whole royal bloodline versus that of the base tribesman such as myself.”

“Fuck off!” Kevin almost chokes on his brochettes. “You’re kidding, right?”

Andrew shrugs his shoulders. “Don’t look at me; I didn’t make the rules.’

All eyes turn once again to the innocent-eyed Becky, stewing in her crème sauce. “I didn’t make the rules! Why are you guys all teaming up on me?”

There’s laughter across the table but Kevin’s inquisition is not nearly done. “What are you talking about? That stuff ended in 1865 or something like that!”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But some people…” Andrew casts a cheeky glance at Becky who points a threatening Conch lollipop in his direction.

“So let me get this straight: you guys can’t get married because Becky’s from the royal family-”

“Royal bloodline, not family,” Andrew interjects.

“Sorry, bloodline… wait what’s the difference?”

“I’m not related to the royal family, silly” Becky chastises.

“You’re not?”

“Except by blood,” Andrew slips in.

“Yeah but it’s not… ummm…” Becky’s at a loss to explain, dipping back into her wine.

“Logical?” Andrew suggests ducking Becky’s swipes at his head with her napkin. “Contemporary?”

“Sane?” Della contributes.

“But Della!” Becky shoots her a frown.

“I’m just saying, sweetie, if my family still lived by the archaic rules that existed BEFORE colonial times then they would have never let this rascal marry me or anyone in our tribe!” she squeezes her husband’s hand.

“I love you baby,” even through foggy eyes, the full force of adoration between the newlyweds is unmissable.

On the other side of the table, Becky and Andrew are exchanging their own looks of affection except there seems to be this invisible but very real wall keeping them just far enough apart for it not to count as cheating but every moment that goes by, that wall seems more likely to crumble, their true feelings for each more likely to overcome if only for a moment.
…………………………………………………………………….

Later into the night, serving 3 more tables now, the double date at Table 08 seems to finally be ready to leave and I’ve barely had to put up with Stevie tonight. I don’t know what’s gotten into him tonight but he’s not been the perennial ass wart I’m used to enduring and I guess I should be happy about that except it feels a lot like the quiet before a storm. I’ve spent most of my free time arguing the possible scenarios with Christina over at the bar… yes, it’s still bothering me because I know that the “tribal thing” can’t really be the reason Andrew and Becky aren’t together.

“Why do you care so much?” Christina asked me earlier and I felt a bit let down cos I thought sticking our noses in total strangers’ business, purely as an elemental exercise, was the glue that bound us together. I mean what else is there to do to run out the clock?

As the party of 4 checks out at reception, an unnervingly civilized Stevie simply bids them a goodnight instead of hounding them like he always does. Something’s very wrong with this guy tonight! Huh, Andrew seems to have warmed his way into his engaged date’s heart at least for the evening as they cozily stroll out to the parking lot, hand in hand, dreaming together of what could be perhaps, the newlyweds a few paces ahead of them, Della insisting on driving given Kevin’s state by the end of the night. I’m sure he was behind the extra generous tip though so I’m secretly praying they get home safe plus something about seeing them together, taking care of each other… It gives me something genuine to hope for.

Suddenly there’s trouble in paradise!

Becky’s shaken Andrew off her arm and seems to be giving him a thorough put down in the middle of the parking lot, despite Andrew’s best efforts to calm her down. Becky looks around frantically and is dismayed to find that her friends have already driven off then with a resurgence of determination, she brushes passed a puzzled Andrew and marches back into the restaurant, Andrew frustrated but following her back in.

“Can I have the phone, please,” Becky strenuously requests at reception.

“Becks this is un-”

“Don’t call me that!” she fights him off, dialing forcefully.

“Becky,” Andrew grasps, but you can hear in his tone that he knows the evening’s beyond salvage. “Becky I’ll take you home.”

But she ignores him stubbornly, the mix of wine and emotion charting landscapes across her face. “Hello… Jokka? Yes this is madam… yes… Where are you?.. Where? Okay, I’m at the other restaurant where you brought us with mister on… Yes, the one with the… the one with the… Yes… yes that one. Okay… Yes, come and pick me.”

When she hangs up the phone, Becky’s stance is supremely defiant and she’s holding firmly onto whatever victory she’s secretly won. Andrew, keeping a safe distance, simply shakes his head only it seems to be less at the unrelenting beauty at his side and more at his own ruptured imaginings.

He leans in towards her as if to kiss her goodnight but catches himself in the moment and rethinks it, opting for a tender but strictly platonic grip on the shoulder, bowing a little to meet her eyeline and then with a twinge of his own defiant irony in his smile, he quotes the poignant lines of a famous poem: “I don’t know what it is about you that closes and opens…”

They sit together, or more next to each other for they don’t really speak and the invisible wall between them is more impermeable than ever. But he waits with her, about 15 minutes in silence, barely exchanging a glance yet no animosity in the air. Just 2 people cut off from each other, left redefining their own understanding of love and happiness, searching to bridge the vast ocean between the two ideals…

On the importance of stuff

What do we owe the ones we love?

Undying loyalty? The best of our ability? The warmest comfort in our arsenal? An even half of our property? It’s one of those questions we all think we know the answer to but the responses we come up with are just our best idea of romantic sentiment, what we’d hope to say if we were accidentally thrown into a Hugh Grant movie; pretty but with no real thought behind the implications.

It’s 7.40 pm when she checks in at reception.

Immediately you can see that this sharply dressed young lady is nerve-wrecked and honestly, long as my day’s been, I’m silently praying that she’s not placed in my section but of course it’s my luck that that ass-turd, Stevie, is on duty tonight and he hates my guts cos of a stupid impression of him he caught me doing out back a couple weeks ago.

“Waiter!” the douchebag signals at me, acting too cool to just use my name. “You will see to this madam’s needs this evening.”

Her “needs”? I’m tempted to ask but I bow silently and escort the distracted lady over to the delicately lit table 08, closest to the bar but 2nd furthest from the kitchen; she’s a small lady, probably won’t be too many trips back and forth. Fuckin Stevie, that grinning asshole.

“Good evening, madam, welcome to our humble bistro” I recite obediently, “I’ll be your waiter this evening and-”

“-you’ll see to my needs?” she quips, laughing nervously as she slides into the velvet cushioned seats.

Yay, a fun one! “Aw that’s just our manager trying to sound sophisticated,” I smile back, handing her the wine list. “Can I start you off with something to drink?”

She skims through then hands it back saying, “Just give me the strongest thing you’ve got.”

“Sadly we only serve hard liquor at the bar.”

She looks up at me desperately and seeing her for the first time in full light, I’m a little taken aback that I hadn’t noticed how pretty she was before. “Please… do the best you can for me,” then staring at the empty seat opposite her she adds, “I’m going to need something strong.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” that’s the best I can come up with, silently hoping Christina’s started her shift at the bar. She’s a lot easier to deal with than Leon, that other fudge-bucket. As I lay down the menu and upturn the soup bowls, it occurs to me that I should put a little more effort into getting along with the rest of the staff but then I look up and catch a glance of that ape Stevie, picking his teeth with one of the takeout menus at reception and the self-satisfied smugness on his face just makes me wanna punch the sense out of him-

The lady’s hand grips mine suddenly but when I turn to her, she’s flushed and her gaze is locked on reception, a large gentleman in an undersized coat being pointed in our direction. She’s so still it’s like she’s not breathing for a second then her grip loosens as her awareness returns.

Acting completely nonchalant, I excuse myself saying, “I’ll go see about that drink.”

She smiles eternal gratitude my way, standing up to meet her gigantic date’s bearhug; for a moment it looks very much like he’s swallowed her before she re-emerges, uneaten.

“Babe,” the date rumbles with a surprisingly gentle look in his eyes.

“Do you want something to drink?” she signals at me to hold on.

“Yes, do you have Novida Pineapple?” he asks me humbly.

“What?” she asks but that’s exactly what I’m thinking too. How can this dude who’s gotta be 6 ft 4 at the very least, this bouncer-looking American football type guy, how can HE drink Novida?

But that’s not an answer I’ll get tonight for his attention returns to his date. “Babe,” he repeats, now a tinge of desperation in his voice.

“Guy,” she responds and I head to the bar wondering if that’s actually the dude’s name or is she that unimaginative with her pet names? I’m barely through the swinging doors and can already see Leon’s dreadlocks waving around behind the bar… goddammit! I can’t catch a break tonight! Just gotta play it cool and hope he’s too distracted.

“Hey, brother, can I get a Novida and a Jack Daniels and coke pronto and make sure it’s Novida pineapple not that lemon hit rubbish,” I’m proud of myself for throwing in the “brother” bit; sounded authentic enough.

But Judge Dread’s onto me, popping, pouring and extending me the Novida in a split second then crossing his arms, “No hard liquor at tables. You know this.”

“Yeah of course man but Stevie’s given me the exception for this one-”

“Is policy,” Leon reaffirms, turning away from me like he’s “done”.

“Hey man you can call reception and ask Stevie,” I bluff.

“I call him,” he threatens, reaching for the phone.

Shit.

“Why are you even still here, man? Isn’t your shift over?”

“I call him now,” the bartender insists, staring me down but I cant back out now. “Is ringing.”

“Isn’t Christina supposed to be on? Where is she anyways?”

“Right here,” the angel of mercy swoops in patting my shoulder, then ducks into the bar area, shucking off her boyfriend’s coat and slipping on her apron.

“Jack and coke,” I smile triumphantly at Dread-head but he’s already dropped the phone and shifted into off-duty mode.

Pouring my drink, Christina shakes her head at me, “Why do you keep sticking your neck out for people who don’t care if you lose your job?”

“Hey,” I puff myself up, “some things are BIGGER than this job.”

“Yeah right,” Christina laughs after me as I back out through the swinging doors into the dining area, “I bet she’s pretty!”

Her bet’s pretty spot on; too bad my charge has also got this gentle, Novida drinking giant of a boyfriend who when I get back to their table, is cooking up in his fancy coat and hunched forward like he’s preparing to dive onto his date.

I’ve barely placed the drinks on the table when he does just that!

“I miss you!” he erupts, engulfing her hand in his ginormous palm. “I do… I’ve been bursting to tell you.”

“Guy,” the lady avoids his gaze and takes a generous hit of her drink.

“Babe, it’s me,” he pleads, “this is ‘us’, I mean… what the hell?

“What the hell what?” she snaps suddenly and the giant shirks back a little.

“I mean, what are we doing? I love you,” he presses on. “You know that.”

She relents somewhat, sighing in response. “I know, Guy.”

“And you love me too, I know you do, you love me,” okay, the giant’s getting a little cocky now, I think.

But she nods; she actually nods and seems to surrender… then catches herself. “But love… love is just an idea, Guy, it’s not tangible; it’s not measurable and it’s not dependable.”

“Don’t give me that, babe, that’s not you,” he shakes his head. “You don’t believe that anymore than you believe in… in the moon landing!”

“That happened Guy!” she laughs, easing the tension, “You need to get over that.”

“Whatever,” he laughs with her, sipping his Novida (through a straw!), “I know you just say that to fuck with me. We both know that shit was staged.”

Moon landing? What the hell are you talking about the moon landing for? Get the straw out of your mouth you big truck and get back to the juicy stuff! I’m stewing in the shadows, shamelessly eavesdropping; hey, this job is exhausting and the pay is almost insulting. I gotta cash in on the perks wherever I can get ‘em.

She unclasps her hand and buries her head in the menu, remembering I’m there. “I don’t know what I want to eat.”

“Honestly, babe,” he chuckles wide-eyed, “I don’t know what half the stuff on here even is!”

“You picked this restaurant,” she sounds more guilt-ridden than accusing.

“I remembered you always saying how you loved the icecream here when your dad took you out after your grad…”

That visibly scores him points but he’s too busy trying to decipher the menu to notice the look of adoration on her face and I can barely contain myself, mentally willing the stupid bear to look up!

“How about the number 14?” I offer. “It’s a house favorite.”

“Mmm, bacon bits… mushroom cream sauce… comes with fries?”

“Can I have mine with rice instead?” the giant seems to be asking her permission.

“No 14 with rice,” I dictate to myself. “And for the madam?”

“Do you have a salad with maybe bits of chicken and bacon-”

“-and some beef maybe?” he laughs, handing me his menu. “A beef salad perhaps?”

Now they’re both laughing it up; clearly some private joke cos I’ve totally missed it. I hate private jokes and especially hate having to wait for the laughter to die down so I can get their actual order. I’m just counting the seconds off my clock.

“So… the Mediterranean chicken salad?” I suggest.

“Mmm… that sounds good,” she decides at last, surrendering her menu. “I’ll have that.”

“Any starters?” I inquire.

“No starters!” they reply in unison, then start giggling again. Brilliant! Another inside joke!

“Perfect choices then,” I gather up the soup bowls. “It’ll be about 15 minutes' wait for your main course.”

“No garlic!” he remembers as I walk off.

“Excuse me?”

“In the salad; don’t put any garlic,” the giant finally slides his gigantic coat off and hangs it over the back of his seat. “She doesn’t like garlic.”

I don’t even need to look over at her to feel the rays of admiration pouring out of her in the giant’s direction and truth be told, I’m kinda happy for him. As I weave my way through the maze of mostly unoccupied tables, I wonder how long they’ve been together. She looks about 23 or 24 and he’s probably 30 so I’m ruling out high school sweet hearts. As I slam my order on the counter and whiz off to the bar, my guess is they met when she was on campus, he’s maybe one of her older brother’s friends, they got to talking at a kasiiki, had a dance or two and hit it off.

“Kwanjula,” Christina weighs in. “The guy who’s drinking a Novida, right? No way he’d go to a kasiiki if he’s drinking a Novida!”

“Good call,” I concede. “So they’ve been together maybe 18 months, 2 years or so.”

“What does she do?” Christina multitasks, handing off some halfdrunk guy’s advances at the other end of the bar. “No, sir, I don’t LIVE at this bar.”

“So where DO you live?” the drunko thinks he’s being slick.

“At home,” Christina finishes him off, sliding his drink in front of him with an amused grin, “Enjoy your drink, sir.”

“I don’t yet know what she does,” I continue when she works her way back to my end of the bar, “but if I had to guess from the way she’s dressed, probably a bank?”

“Heels or no heels?” Christina inquires.

“Ummm, fuck if I know… What’s the difference?”

“Check when you get back… bank chicks don’t wear heels unless they’re in corporate and 23’s too young for corporate.”

“Damn, you’re really good at this.”

“Leave it to the pros,” she poses.

“Sure thing,” I smile deviously, “and I’ll leave you to that too.”

“Bartender…” the drunk at the other end of the bar calls out. “Bartender, come and say hello to me.”

Christina rolls her eyes at me but we all know it’s just part of the job as is the guessing game… hey, whatever it takes to knock those hours off the clock. Back through the swinging doors, I have to wait only a minute and my order’s up. Just 3 plates which is a relief cos that means it’ll only be one trip; it took me a bit longer than everyone in the training but I finally mastered the 4-plate hold: one in the palm, one on the forearm and one at the elbow joint, the fourth in your other hand. It’s not really a skill you can apply to any other part of your life but it’s invaluable in the culinary industry.

Things are heating up back at table 08.

“Stuff?” the giant’s growling across the table. “Stuff?”

“It’s not just ‘stuff’, Guy!” she’s on the defensive. “You don’t even have a flat iron!”

“Hey you were there when that iron blew so don’t act like you don’t know the inside story.”

“It’s not just the iron,” she rolls on, “A car. You don’t have a car.”

“You hate cars more than I do… The traffic!”

“Furniture,” she fires.

“Makes the place too crowded!”

“A kettle…a… a broom… A spare towel, spare toothbrush-”

“It’s not a hotel!”

“Curtains! A dustbin! A toilet seat…” she lowers her voice, suddenly aware she’s in a restaurant again. “You don’t have a *seat on your toilet*… How many times do I have to fall in before you get a toilet seat?”

“What are you doing going to the bathroom in the dark?”

“There’s no lightbulb in your bathroom, Guy!” she erupts again.

This seems as good a time as any to slip their orders onto the table for the giant’s clearly stumped at this point. I have to be careful not to make eye contact with him in this very lowest of low moments for him; just lay the plates on the table and retreat to the shadows, that’s all I have to do but like a car pile up on Masaka Road, no matter how gruesome, I can’t help but sneak a glance at him.

This guy is shattered; at first I think he’s as appalled as I am by the length of that list of missing household items (even I have a spare toothbrush, dude) but when he speaks, broken and absent, it’s clear that his disbelief has a more contemplative origin.

“But… but… it’s just… stuff, babe… It’s things!” He tries to meet her eyeline but he can’t catch it. “What we have, what we are is more than ‘things’… isn’t it? I mean I can GET things, if that’s what you really need, I can go out there and get things… but this… you and me… THIS isn’t out there on the shelf of some supermarket or furniture shop.”

He reaches for her hand, not roughly but firm. “They don’t sell THIS anywhere. I love you.”

But she’s not giving in. “It’s not that you don’t have those things, Guy; it’s that you won’t ever care about them.”

“I care about YOU!” Is that frustration in his voice? Clearly he senses it too and backs down. “You’ve never cared about that stuff. I don’t believe that’s what this is all about.”

“I didn’t care maybe when we met and I was still in 3rd year. I ignored it when I was interning and didn’t bring it up when I got the job at Samsung but it’s because I believed at some point you’d wake up and…”

“And what?” he’s almost venomous now.

“And grow up! C’mon, Guy! You still work for your father who doesn’t even pay you an actual salary-”

“I make more than most guys I know!”

“-and spend it on cartoons!”

“Manga! And don’t act like you don’t watch Bleach with me!”

“You still wear jean shorts to work. I mean, you only have a single pair of dress shoes, black pants, maybe 2 dress shirts you only wear a couple of times a year…”

“I get it, stuff, stuff, STUFF! Everything’s about stuff!” seems the giant’s hit his quota too. “When did you get like this?”

“When I grew up.”

“Ah, so this is grown up. You think cos you have your own business cards, a business line and… all that other shit… you think that makes you more important than me?”

“Who’s said anything about being important?”

“You’re BREAKING UP WITH ME! That means you’ve made yourself more important than what we have and I know you don’t believe any of this crap. It’s your family talking, not you.”

“It’s not my family-”

“Babe, I know you… I KNOW you… I’ve known you a long time and I know everything about you, things no one else knows, things no one else sees… And I know them… I know your family and I understand why they don’t like me… They don’t think I deserve you and the truth is they’re right cos you ARE amazing and you deserve someone amazing but I can try… I mean, I’m trying, maybe not as hard as I should be but please don’t take this for granted.”

“I’m not taking anything…” she’s fighting tears back now. “You think this is easy?”

“I know it’s not and that’s cos you know what I’m saying is the truth!” the giant’s voice is angry and scared and tender and deep at the same time. “Babe listen… listen: people, most of them, they don’t ever get to feel like this about another person and even fewer still get to feel this way about someone who feels the same way about them… I won’t ever feel this way about another person… Ever again… This is it for me… You’re it… You’re who I wanna better myself for and build my world around and try harder for and I promise I’ll try harder to be all those things you once believed I could be… Just please… Please, don’t shut me out…Don’t let it end like this.”

Shit.

This guy’s gone all out; I know I shouldn’t be here but they can’t see me in the shadows and honestly, I can’t bring myself to leave. Not with the decks stacked so high; man I wish Christina was here to bet on this with me right now. Maybe I can run to the bar and back- no… Text! But what to text? Where do I even begin? I mean, this guy just laid it all out over his rapidly cooling Fungi Chicken with fried potatoes and bacon bits, poured his fucking heart out and she hasn’t said a thing, hasn’t moved a finger, the tears just streaming down her face without any real destination, her gaze as unfocused and uncertain as her feelings in this moment and the cards in front of her so uncomfortably daunting they’re practically tangible and it all hangs on her final answer. She’s at this point where she’s gotta choose between who she hoped she’d be and what she feels she can stay-

“Is that a mobile phone?” Fuck! Stevie's snuck up on me from reception!

“What? Oh, it was an emergency,” I try and cover up, carefully shifting the watchdog away from the consciousness of the drama playing out at table 08.

“You know the policy,” Stevie’s relishing this. “That’s going to be another 15,000 shs out of your pay.”

“Dammit, Stevie, I had a family emergency!”

“Well I hope your family will be able to reimburse that 15,000 shs and you shouldn’t hover around the customers like that. It’s creepy.”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” I mutter under my breath, trying to make out what’s happening at table 08 but the giant’s gotten up. Did I miss it? What did she say? Where's he going? The bathroom- what the hell? He's heading towards- us.

“You have a pen and paper?” he rumbles looking through me for there’s no one behind his eyes, just the 6 ft 4 frame of a man that used to be.

“This way, sir,” Stevie busy-bodies, ushering the incredible hulk to reception, “and I hope you’re enjoying your delicacy this evening.”

Stevie, that douche.

The giant scribbles something down, something brief, and then without a glance back on pain of turning into a pillar of salt, that gentle Novida drinking bear shuffles himself out into the cold night, a shadow of the hopeful, ill-fitting coat wearing hulk that bounced in a half hour ago. Stevie snaps his fingers, summoning me to reception and hands me the folded note to deliver to the customer at table 08, the tiny women awkwardly coiled into herself, staring into the candle burning away at her table.

Never before has my section of this restaurant seemed so far from reception but I know I’m carrying in my hands, in that tiny folded note on our restaurant’s elegantly designed letterhead, I’m carrying not only the broken pieces of a man’s life, but the instrument to shatter another’s.

“I’m sorry, madam, but it appears your date has left.” She doesn't seem surprised, if anything relieved. “He asked me to deliver this to you.”

I hand her the note and retreat to the shadows, endlessly curious as to its contents but even as morally depraved as I am, I recognise that this moment has nothing to do with my curiosity.

She stares at the note for what feels like 5 or 6 minutes yet I’m sure the giant couldn’t have scribbled more than a line or 2. It’s strange cos I was expecting some sort of reaction from her after all that’s gone before; is it sinister of me to be… disappointed?

But then she lets loose.

It’s a shrill yelp into the night, like a dog that’s been backed into on accident while backing the Ipsum out of the garage, then she just seems to collapse into herself and sob without any actual tears flowing. It really is one of the strangest sights I’ve ever seen; at first I’m thinking the best thing is to leave her alone to just let it out but she goes on like this for 10, 15 minutes and no matter how much Stevie tries to assuage her, she’s seemingly beyond coherence and we literally end up having to call a special hire to get her home. I’ve had a lot of dramatic shifts at our restaurant but tonight’s has got to be up there!

It’s only when I’m clearing the untouched plates another 20 minutes later that I stumble upon that folded piece of paper, the note that sent that pretty young go-getter into an almost comatose state of shock, the note with our elegant letterhead at the top and beneath it in the handwriting of a ghost, one single line:

“Had I the heavens embroidered cloths... Love Always.”

Wait, what cloths?

Dammit!

I really hate inside jokes.