Table Manners

Back and forth and back and forth, kitchen to tables, kitchen to tables. I was sure I was going to wear a rut into this rustic wooden floor. My apron had probably seen a hundred nondescript black pens come and go, a handful of different bottle openers, and many a dirty piece of silverware spirited away at the last moment before a guest took their seat. I’d only been here a few months, but it felt like decades had passed since I had wandered into this valley in the back of a stranger’s pickup truck. My shoes were wearing out, but not much else had changed.

I rushed a plate of ham and cheese out to table seven. Seven was the coziest spot, tucked into the corner furthest from the door and out of sight from most of the other tables. The couple sitting there looked like they too were from out of town. I had tried to make conversation, but they only grunted and smiled and pointed at specific lines on the menu. I couldn’t help but think that they didn’t know how to read it. You had to admit that Ham and cheese was a funny option this time of year.

A few minutes later, after many more trips to the other tables, I checked back in on table seven. They smiled and pointed at more menu items, then said “wine” several times in a variety of dialects and languages. I found them a bottle and was on my way to their table when I saw a knife with a crusted edge that needed a good long soak in the sink before it could ever hope to return to the dining room. I swiped it from the table, dropped it into my apron and kept walking in a smooth and sly movement I’d picked up last year in a diner. I arrived with the wine. The couple seemed on edge. They kept looking at each other, talking hurriedly in a low voice.

I realized I’d seen them before. On television? I tried to remember when exactly but all that came to mind were jumbled images of cartoon evildoers from my childhood. Then it hit me. They must have seen the change in my facial expression because they lunged at me. Food and wine went everywhere. I turned and stumbled away, but fell on my face. I felt something sharp gouging between my ribs. I struggled to my knees, and felt something hanging out of my chest in a place where nothing should hang out. It was the knife in my apron. The floor was red with smeared blood, and there was a deep scratch where the back of the knife had been pressed into the wood. A rut after all. I laughed, then keeled forward. The strangers were long gone by then.