Andre in Flight

3. Andre

My next few shifts I didn't see Andre and I worried that he was another on a long list of shiftless dishwashers. I was desperate to see him again, illogically so, and was even tempted to ask Fang about him, when suddenly he was there, hanging clean wineglasses on the wooden rack above the wine cellar. Each time he reached up, the back of his shirt caught on his apron strap, exposing the top of his boxers, the dip in his lower back and a strip of honeyed brown skin.

"Hey, there, I'm Martian," I said, then kicked myself for the slip. Damn Melissa and her nicknames. "I mean, Martin."

"Andre." He offered his hand. I shook it.

"Have we met before?" The sensation was unshakable.

He smiled, bashfully so, and lowered his eyes. His lashes were long and curled at the ends. I caught just the hint of his dimples. "No, sir. I don't think so."

"You're sure?"

He shook his head. His upper lip curled down over his front teeth and he bit it, talking out the side of his mouth. "I just got here a week ago and if I'd seen you in Alabama, I'd remember."

I wasn't sure it was a compliment, but I couldn't help smiling.

"Is there something memorable about me?" I was genuinely curious.

He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, revealing the shape of his bicep, the tender skin of his under arm, a shade lighter than the rest. And the arrow tattoo.

"I guess so," he said.

"What is it?" I was making him uncomfortable, but I wished to probe him more, peel him back like the skin of a fruit.

"I don't know. You're kind of..." He glanced around to make sure we were alone. "You're cute. For a straight guy, I mean." He raised one eyebrow, maybe hoping I'd correct him, a cheeky move.

"What about for a gay guy?" I asked.

He smiled widely and pressed the knuckles of his fist to his open palm. "Yeah. I mean, you all right for a gay guy too."

He was a flirt, my weakness.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Eighteen."

"Bullshit."

He shrugged and smiled like he'd been caught.

Fang came in then and plopped a side of beef on the counter to carve, breathing heavy and clomping around with his steel-toed boots. I nodded once more to Andre and moved along. I'd wait Fang out.

Later, at closing time, I asked Andre when he got off.

He glanced around at the piles of dishes. He looked like one of those cartoon characters who'd come to a fancy restaurant empty-handed and ordered the most expensive thing on the menu, and then got stuck washing dishes. He also didn't seem very efficient in this line of work. In fact, I wasn't sure how he even got the job.

"I think it's going to be a while," he said, blowing out his breath.

"I'm out," Fang announced, throwing his apron in a laundry basket. "Take care of these on your way out," he said to Andre, then glanced up to find me there. His forehead creased causing his heavy brow to hood his eyes, like two caves. "Front's closed down," he said to me. "Hector's upstairs."