The Donor to a Vampire (Donor #1)

Chapter 2: Troubles

I raced to the dinner, cursing people in my mind who sauntered on the sidewalk instead of being considerate and moving out of my way. My legs were longer than average, and I was thanking the stars for my genetics; I was faster because of them. In less than 15 minutes of my crazy running, there at the corner, The Monique's glistened in the street lights. I stopped to take a breather. My reflection in the glass display of a small store opposite made me shudder, as did the store owner inside the shop, who tried to busy himself and not stare at my sorry state.

Damn, I look like a mess.

My honey-blond hair was pointing in every direction possible, well, more than it usually did. Having not straight and not curly hair was a hell of its own. They reached just past my shoulders, and most escaped from the sloppy bun I put them in this morning with a vengeful frizz. I looked crazy, bent over and panting like an older man on his deathbed. My cheeks were red as tomatoes which was quite an accomplishment. It was hard to notice a blush against light caramel-coloured skin. Big wide amber eyes were staring back at me, which were currently brightened by the exercise. But only I noticed that there was an undertone of tiredness to them. Shaking my head to forget and slightly recovered, I crossed the road to Moniques'. A familiar smell of overly fried oil assaulted my nostrils as soon as I stepped through the door. It was a typical American 50′s style dinner: with its' checkered tile floor, red booths, a counter that flapped so that you could access the kitchen and even a jukebox playing the songs from that era. The patrons were loudly conversing, families laughed, and children ran around, making it difficult for the fellow waitress Aubrey to deliver the ordered food and beverage. With a smile, I made my way to the back to change from my daily clothes.

"A reinforcement has arrived," I thundered over the clanking of the pots and pans as I passed the kitchen.

"MONIQUE, DESS IS HERE." Shouted LeBron, the cook.

He waved at me with a spatula, then resumed flipping the pancakes while adding a flavour of juicy cursing as a secret ingredient. Without another word to me, he fully immersed himself in the challenging preparation of food.

"Thank the Gods, Karma or the Devil; I don't care." Said a middle-aged woman hurrying into the kitchen, her black hair wildly framing her face.

Monique was the complete opposite of what you would expect from this dinner. She was dressed as if she had escaped flowery, hippie-loving 60′s. Vibrant colours, prints, loose clothes and many scarfs adorned her figure. She announced her presence before entering the room with many clinks of silver bangles and beads decorating her hands and neckline.

"Aubrey is trying her best to cover the whole dinner, but a pair of hands is needed ASAP." Monique circled me like a shark does a bleeding victim, making me dizzy.

"Don't worry, Monique; we will manage; we always do." My definite answer only earned me a wave of Moniques' hand, which made the bracelets and rings rattle and clank against each other.

"Go change before I change my mind about the tips," she shooed me toward the dressing room.

"Yes, madame." I saluted and hurried along.

We ran around like chickens without their heads for four hours when finally the dinner was closed for the night. I sat in the booth sitting cross-cross-apple-sauce, massaging the soles of my feet while Aubrey laid on her back and moaned about the day. I just nodded at her words, too exhausted that even speaking took too much of me.

"Here you go, ladies," Monique appeared from the kitchens with big burgers and pile fries, "you, my darlings, earned this."

My mouth watered, and my eyes widened with want. This, the wafting aroma of fried potatoes, was the meaning of life, the holy grail if you will.