The Enigma

Chapter One - Broken Plates.

Speaking of the replacement, my eyes glided from table to table until I located him. He stood carefully noting down an order, stooping slightly so that he was able to hear what the customers were saying. To say that he looked comical would have been an understatement, he looked hilarious. A typical grunge boy, he looked so out of place in his place yellow uniform shirt, it was all I could do not to burst out laughing whenever I saw him. His hair was styled in that ‘I just rolled out of bed’ way that seemed to be insanely popular amongst the wannabe ‘bad boys’, but I knew for a fact that without at least some product, his hair would have been stuck to his head hours ago with sweat, much like mine was. 

I was well aware that I looked like something the cat had dragged in.

He slowly turned, and I quickly adverted my gaze from him, choosing instead to stare at the gaudy pink wall in front of me. The squeak of converse against the tiled floor allowed me to track his progress across the diner, and I allowed myself to glance his way once again as he ducked in under the countertop, not stopping to lift it like the rest of us. A black lip piercing glinted in under the fluorescent lights, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

I would never understand the obsession people had with sticking needles through places in their skin that needles shouldn’t even be near.

“Can you bring the dirty dishes back to the sink?” I asked him, rubbing my eyes once again “I won’t be able to lift all of that.” I waved towards the dish crate, which was stacked high with dirty plates. Paul was a stickler for washing plates before placing them in the dishwasher, and while I understood that it minimised the risk of breakdowns it was still a pain in the ass to have to do.

He grunted noncommittally, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Six hours we had been working side by side – quite literally given the size of the diner – and he hadn’t uttered a single word to me. Not one, not even a simple ‘hi’. I didn’t even know his name, and I was pretty sure he didn’t want to know mine.

I suppressed a yawn, and watched as he grabbed the two handles of the over-full crate, and began backing towards the swing door into the kitchen. He bumped the door open with his elbow before turning around, not taking his eyes off of the stack of plates for a second.

“Mind the-” I started, but it was too late. The sound of the tip of his shoe hitting against the small step rang out almost like a gunshot, and I actually felt my jaw drop as I watched him fumble, sending all of the plates crashing to the floor.

“What have you done?” I shrieked, my hands knotting in my hair.

He looked from me to the shattered plates, his blue eyes wide. His jaw floundered slightly, before he shut it tightly and swallowed. 

“You’re telling Paul that this was all your fault, all of it.” I pointed a finger at him, my voice shaking “This, this mess is not coming out of my pay check.” I warned him.

Pushing roughly past him, I dropped to my knees and began trying to pick up the millions of fragments up off of the floor. Pretty much half of the plates in the entire diner were broken into tiny pieces, and I had to swallow the urge to scream and cry simultaneously. This guy was supposed to be helping me, not making the job harder than it was already.

“Order’s ready Frankie,” Beau hollered out from the kitchen.

“One second,” I answered through gritted teeth, blinking away the moisture in my eyes impatiently. It was ridiculous, completely insane that I would even consider crying over a few broken plates, but all I could see was a weeks wages going down the drain, my fault or not.

Looking back, I saw he was still standing where I had left him, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his black jeans and his mouth clamped shut.

“Are you just going to stand there?” I asked, my tone icy.