The Enigma

Chapter Two - Small Margins.

Sunday was marginally better, the margin provided by the fact that I only had to work one shift. Everything else was pretty much on the same level of awful as the day before.

The first thing that greeted me when I stepped through the diners’ door was Paul’s furious face. Believe me when I say there were certain things that should not be seen at ten in the morning, and an angry Paul is one of them. His face was a deep shade of red, and a previously non-existent vein had appeared just beside his temple. That, paired with the fact that he was breathing like someone who had just run a marathon clued me into the fact that Paul was most certainly not a happy camper.

Short and stick thin, save for the slight paunch of his stomach, he was a man who definitely looked older than he should have. In the two years since I had begun working at the diner, Paul had grown progressively balder and crabbier. Now standing before me in his typical attire – a cheap suit and an even cheaper shirt – his pitiful attempt at trying to be formidable was failing miserably. He was only slightly taller than I was, meaning not very tall at all, and the whole ‘trying to look down at me’ thing wasn’t really working out for him.

“Kitchen. Now.” he hissed, gesturing for me to walk through the swing door. Sighing, I pushed open the door and attempted to stifle a gag as I walked through the ever-present smoke cloud. Beau stood, spatula in hand, in front of the industrial cooker trying to appear busy, even though we all knew he was eavesdropping. Had the situation been reversed I probably would’ve been doing the exact same thing, but it wasn’t flipped, and the idea of him being there irked me. I didn’t need an audience, this would be bad enough on its own.

The only other person in the kitchen also happened to be the person I desperately wanted to avoid, if just to save myself being carted off to jail for punching him in the face. He was slouched against the counter, ankles crossed, staring down at his shoes. The absolute picture of pure innocence, but I knew better than to fall for the act. I knew only too well the sort of mass destruction he was capable of.

Alright, so he hadn’t burned down the diner or anything, but judging from the look on Paul’s’ face he might as well have.

“So.” Paul began finally, crossing his arms over his chest. “Somebody want to fill me in on what the heck happened here yesterday?” he asked, his furious gaze flickering from me to the other idiot. I plucked at the hem of my shirt self-consciously, a blush spreading along my neck.

Sometimes I hated my natural reactions. There I was, blushing like it was in fact me who had caused the entire catastrophe, when the real culprit was still slouched, looking like he was completely zoned out from what anyone was saying.

“Well?” Paul demanded when neither of us spoke. My gaze bored a hole in the side of the idiots head, but still he didn’t speak. The only sound in the entire kitchen was Beau scraping the burnt pieces of food from the cooker, whistling tunelessly all the while.

“Frankie, you had better start talking right now. What the hell went on?”

“I’m not the one you should be asking here Paul,” I said, shooting him yet another furious look. It was completely wasted though, considering he was still entranced by his shoes.

“I don’t care who I should be asking, I want my damn answers and I want them now. How did you two genius’ manage to break that many plates yesterday?”

“I didn’t break anything,” I stressed. “He’s the one that dropped the dish cart.”

It might have been a bit childish, but if throwing him in under the figurative bus meant saving my own skin, then I was more than willing to.

“If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times. Stop letting the dishes pile up.” Paul glared at me “This whole catastrophe could all have been avoided if you hadn’t been complacent.”