TR Grand
Smile The sous chef held up two lemons. “Do your nipples look like this, or like this?” he asked, staring intently at my breasts. I glared at him as I grabbed the plates from the pick-up line. He rubbed his thumbs over the nubs on the end of each lemon and licked his lips. The other cooks laughed while the dishwasher grabbed his crotch and thrust in my direction. The manager leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, leering. He winked as I walked past him through the swinging doors into the dining room to deliver my customers their meals; grass-fed aged porterhouse steak, medium-rare, with potatoes lyonnaise and garlic butter mushrooms for him, and a winter salad with three kinds of locally grown microgreens, fire roasted root vegetables, crumbled house-made goat cheese, and maple balsamic vinaigrette for her. I plastered on a smile, trying to appear like a welladjusted human who enjoyed her work and wasn’t at all sexually harassed every time she walked into the 38 |
antilang. no. 9
