Vanilla

Twenty Six

One, the switch had been turned off precisely because the electric heater hadn't been working in the first place. Two, it might have been the wrong switch. Yet, a simple evaluation of both supporting claims found problematic loopholes in either possibilities. The instructor from before would have raised the problem of a faulty switch, especially since I'd pointed out its exact location and purpose. And as for the switch being of the wrong function, I had been so certain that it was the only one turned off.

Regardless, all this overthinking wasn't going to magically turn icy waters into something out of an onsen so I bit my tongue and forced every complaint out of the way, focusing on the task at hand and doing my best to prepare my hands for winter's embrace. Absolutely nothing had turned out the way I had hoped it would.

And as though to prove the legitimacy of such a point, the bane of my existence walked into the dishwashing room in his whites—the most livid expression on his face dissipating upon resting his gaze on, um, the general wash counter. Having looked up with the expectations of more trays and mixing bowls to clean, me, the dishwasher, found the perfect example of another physical entity that required some good scrubbing. Washing. Cleaning.

"Leroy?"

"Hey," he seemed just as surprised as I was, drawing closer to the sink. "You're on dishwashing?" His tone of disbelief was slightly disturbing.

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I am quite good at washing dishes," I quipped in return. "An expert, really. Which means you have no right to be questioning my legitimacy. Just because I'm not the best chef doesn't mean I am incapable of washing the dishes."

He laughed. "I didn't say that."

"W-well, I'd assumed you were implying it," I paused, feeling my ears grow heated at having jumped to conclusions. "Is there something you need? Are these for your team?"

Leroy's expression promptly soured and hardened all at once. "What team?"

"Oh um," I blinked, returning my gaze to the washed up trays and utensils on the counter. "I just thought you were here to collect something for the salads or the protein. Whatever it is you might be heading."

"A bunch of idiots, that's what," he muttered under his breath, giving the stack of mixing bowls a glance. "They got me the wrong wine for coq au vin so," elaborated, a thumb over his shoulder pointed at the ingredient pantry.

"I can imagine how frustrated you must feel," I told him, genuinely feeling upset myself. "Dishwashing's all I've done so far and already, it's been disastrous. Oh—since you're here, could I trouble you to take these two small baking trays to the entrée team on protein?"

Leroy nodded at my words, continuing to scan the mountain of things I'd yet to clean and lingering especially long on the bunch of kitchen knives laid out on a dirty tray. "I'll pick them up on the way back," he said, reaching out to put them aside but frowning and turning them over the moment he picked them up. "It's freezing."

"Ah," I was about to explain but he was leaning over to run a finger under the open tap before I knew it, glancing at the handle that had already been pointed towards the red end. All at once, he appeared, if possible, more furious than before.

"Someone turned off the heater."

"It's probably just a faulty switch," I reasoned lightly, concerned for the wellbeing of kitchen staff who seemed apparently more prone to the emotion of anger. "Or I'm starting to think it might have tripped again or, well... these things happen. I've already tried flipping the switch at the operating panel two rooms down but it's still cold. If you see the lady with short curly hair dressed in her whites along the way could you tell her that?"