make their
way through the bar. Merlot talked to people, gave the word he
wasn’t to be disturbed and checked with the hostess Allie about
some special situation. Eventually they made their way to his
office.
Whatever Cindy was hoping for wasn’t what she
found. She had conjured up some sort of elegant, romantic private
table, a waiter or two. Most likely a rose or something on the
table, not to mention candlelight, probably a sound system playing
soft music, lights dimmed for romance.
“Let me just clean this shit off,” he said
over his shoulder, stacking piles of invoices one on top of the
other and dumping them on a dreadful striped couch with torn, duct
taped arm rests. He set two coffee mugs onto the credenza behind
his large, black chair. Each mug still held coffee and as he picked
them up they dribbled a small puddle across the desktop.
He grabbed a soiled terry-cloth rag and
attempted to wipe at some sort of stain that seemed as if it didn’t
want to leave, moistened the rag by dipping it into the trail of
coffee and garnered moderate success, then nodded at a green
Naugahyde chair.
“Just pull that damn thing up here to the
desk and I’ll get some food for us. What do you feel like?”
“Ahh, is there a menu?” Cindy asked, still a
little in shock.
“Oh yeah, sure, let me get one for you,” he
said, leaving before she could say no wait.
She looked around, remembered the new top she
had purchased now lying on her bed and her ridiculous dreams about
a romantic evening and started laughing. The guy runs a God damned
restaurant and it’s Saturday night. He doesn’t have time to have a
romantic dinner.
He quickly returned with a menu, a couple
bottles of wine in hand and things began to look better.
“Recommendation?” she asked.
“If it were me I’m partial to the bruschetta
appetizer, and we have the best prime rib,” he said, knowing they
had plenty of both in the kitchen.
“Okay, you sold me. Is there more merlot,
Tony?” she asked sliding her glass across the desktop.
He filled her glass, left with the menu,
returned in short order with silverware and napkins.
She attempted to sit gracefully in the green
Naugahyde chair and failed, miserably. The arms on the thing kept
it from moving any closer to the edge of the desk and the angle of
the chair’s seat placed her butt about a foot lower than her knees.
With her skirt up above the top of her thighs she would have killed
right now for a pair of jeans, but had to settle for the napkin,
quickly unwrapping her silverware and draping the cloth across her
thighs. It was a little like having a GYN exam. The only thing the
chair lacked was a set of stirrups.
He sat opposite and just a bit higher in his
black leather office chair.
“Who’s that?” She gestured with her third
glass of wine to the only photo in the room; a man with a small boy
in a Little League uniform
“That’s my dad, and that goofy looking kid in
the baseball uniform is me.”
“Is he still alive, your Dad?”
“No, but I still miss him every day. We were
real pals.”
She attempted to wedge her knees underneath
the overhang of the desk but the arms of the chair prevented her
from moving any closer. She felt like she was slumping into the
back of the chair.
He seemed not to notice, and he chatted on
about work, her work mostly. Asking what she did in a day? How
crazy was it working through the fair week?
“Well Merlot, isn’t this cozy,” cackled a
waitress. She carried four plates, another bottle of wine and
pushed the door open with her hip. She set the food on the desk,
looked around then down at Cindy who suddenly felt on display.
“I’ll get some candles, honey, never enough
time for romance.”
He rolled his eyes and remained quiet while
she was in the office. Once the door closed he said,
“She’s been with us for over thirty-five
years. My dad hired her, she’s a good worker, loyal, and she gets
away with murder.”
“Ahh, that’s so
way through the bar. Merlot talked to people, gave the word he
wasn’t to be disturbed and checked with the hostess Allie about
some special situation. Eventually they made their way to his
office.
Whatever Cindy was hoping for wasn’t what she
found. She had conjured up some sort of elegant, romantic private
table, a waiter or two. Most likely a rose or something on the
table, not to mention candlelight, probably a sound system playing
soft music, lights dimmed for romance.
“Let me just clean this shit off,” he said
over his shoulder, stacking piles of invoices one on top of the
other and dumping them on a dreadful striped couch with torn, duct
taped arm rests. He set two coffee mugs onto the credenza behind
his large, black chair. Each mug still held coffee and as he picked
them up they dribbled a small puddle across the desktop.
He grabbed a soiled terry-cloth rag and
attempted to wipe at some sort of stain that seemed as if it didn’t
want to leave, moistened the rag by dipping it into the trail of
coffee and garnered moderate success, then nodded at a green
Naugahyde chair.
“Just pull that damn thing up here to the
desk and I’ll get some food for us. What do you feel like?”
“Ahh, is there a menu?” Cindy asked, still a
little in shock.
“Oh yeah, sure, let me get one for you,” he
said, leaving before she could say no wait.
She looked around, remembered the new top she
had purchased now lying on her bed and her ridiculous dreams about
a romantic evening and started laughing. The guy runs a God damned
restaurant and it’s Saturday night. He doesn’t have time to have a
romantic dinner.
He quickly returned with a menu, a couple
bottles of wine in hand and things began to look better.
“Recommendation?” she asked.
“If it were me I’m partial to the bruschetta
appetizer, and we have the best prime rib,” he said, knowing they
had plenty of both in the kitchen.
“Okay, you sold me. Is there more merlot,
Tony?” she asked sliding her glass across the desktop.
He filled her glass, left with the menu,
returned in short order with silverware and napkins.
She attempted to sit gracefully in the green
Naugahyde chair and failed, miserably. The arms on the thing kept
it from moving any closer to the edge of the desk and the angle of
the chair’s seat placed her butt about a foot lower than her knees.
With her skirt up above the top of her thighs she would have killed
right now for a pair of jeans, but had to settle for the napkin,
quickly unwrapping her silverware and draping the cloth across her
thighs. It was a little like having a GYN exam. The only thing the
chair lacked was a set of stirrups.
He sat opposite and just a bit higher in his
black leather office chair.
“Who’s that?” She gestured with her third
glass of wine to the only photo in the room; a man with a small boy
in a Little League uniform
“That’s my dad, and that goofy looking kid in
the baseball uniform is me.”
“Is he still alive, your Dad?”
“No, but I still miss him every day. We were
real pals.”
She attempted to wedge her knees underneath
the overhang of the desk but the arms of the chair prevented her
from moving any closer. She felt like she was slumping into the
back of the chair.
He seemed not to notice, and he chatted on
about work, her work mostly. Asking what she did in a day? How
crazy was it working through the fair week?
“Well Merlot, isn’t this cozy,” cackled a
waitress. She carried four plates, another bottle of wine and
pushed the door open with her hip. She set the food on the desk,
looked around then down at Cindy who suddenly felt on display.
“I’ll get some candles, honey, never enough
time for romance.”
He rolled his eyes and remained quiet while
she was in the office. Once the door closed he said,
“She’s been with us for over thirty-five
years. My dad hired her, she’s a good worker, loyal, and she gets
away with murder.”
“Ahh, that’s so
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