intimacy in the restaurant on the corner
everyone knows that hospitality is brutal. gross abuse from customers, being seen not as a person but merely a vessel for your dining experience, screaming matches in the kitchen, hours at odds and ends. i leave stinking of fish and frying oil and cheese. all of it clings to my hair, my clothes, my skin.
but there is something comforting in the pandemonium of a rush when everyone is overworked and things are going wrong. you know that everyone in an apron has your back. we are angry, but as we close down at the end of the night it all fades to noise.
and there are quiet moments, too. polishing glasses and forks turns to conversation. a quick tap on the bum of one of your girls as you pass by. a chef handing you some food through the pass. a gentle touch on your back as someone passes behind you. the breath of relief when someone runs food for you. all of these little love languages make up a woven net of something you can't quite place your finger on. you can't quite call them friends, but neither are some of them just your coworkers. shifts bleed into late night wine on the stoop of the flower shop across the road, melting professional into personal.
god do i hate the job, but these are the moments i'll look back. these little intimacies in the restaurant on the corner.
