Windows on the World (OLD VERSION) [BEING REWRITTEN]

[₂] ᵂᵀᶜ

A metallic noise drew their attention to the kitchen doors, behind which two cooks appeared. A young and rangy boy and an older, also slim-looking, man. The younger one was suited with such green hazel eyes and with such little brown in them that they came off as emerald, it was definitely the first thing anyone would notice about him.

"Philippe Feret, Head Chef." The older cook was solemn but amicable in his introduction.

"I'm Peter. Peter Gould, the Sous Chef, as Dana will have told you."

Phoebe nodded politely and thanked Peter personally for the favor.

"It's all good," he said in return. Something about him reminded her of Dana, other than the freckles that Phoebe herself also shared with her cousin and the only similar feature between them. Perhaps that's why Peter and Dana were good friends, because of that undefined trait that Phoebe couldn't put her finger on yet. But for the moment, he seemed pretty normal, at least much more than Dana.

The restaurant opened its doors not long after the briefing on Georgia's part. Phoebe had already studied the menu the day before, and thanks to her photographic-ish memory, it was all deeply embedded into her mind just in time.

At first, not many people arrived, most had breakfast elsewhere. But things started picking up at midday, when Phoebe had already served a handful of tables with success, if not with a gripping anxiousness that she hoped did not show through her face or her hand pulse.

Georgia congratulated Phoebe right after her first serving. Which was only brunch for a kind and chatty elderly couple, who pursued a small conversation with Phoebe to tell her about how much they used to eat there in the 1970s and 1980s. It was a nice start that got her in a good mood that she wished would last for the rest of the day.

Phoebe returned from the kitchen after Peter called her over to explain how to deal with customers who complained and made nonsensical requests, to find Georgia waving at her.

"Yes?" Phoebe asked her.

"See that man over there? He's alone, all the other tables are packed. So you take his order and we'll see to the others."

When Phoebe figured out what man Georgia was talking about, all she could see was a silhouette. A backlit profile against the bright sky. A 'floating' shadow with a surrounding blue glow and the topography of the city down below. There was nothing special about it, but the darkness of the subject, the isolation implied in it, spoke personally to her in volumes. The sole figure by the five-seat table turned his head to look out the window, and that's when Phoebe approached him.

"Welcome to Windows on the World, sir. May I take your order?"

With the proximity, he was no longer engulfed in backlight, and the first thing to strike her was that he was dressed in the most expensive-looking tan suit she'd ever seen. His wispy but dapper ash-blond hair was intermittently filled with greying hair at each side of his temples but almost matched the tone of the suit.

"Good afternoon," he said with a mellow voice as he faced her. He hadn't looked at the menu or even asked for the specials when he placed his order. "I will have a salad."

When she realized the man was not going to continue listing food, Phoebe spoke. "Anything else?"

"No," He responded flatly.

"Only a plain salad?"

He seemed to take notice of her implying that he would be better off ordering something a little more elaborated.

"Fine. Make it an Israeli couscous salad." His deep-set, cold, and misty eyes acted as a compelling force against Phoebe's feeble personal shield.

"Nothing to drink?" She insisted.