Cristina used her fork to push the last few pieces of pasta, chicken and vegetables around the wide glossy porcelain bowl in front of her. A rapidly drying crust of the creamy sauce had formed over its surface. It had been delicious and she really did want to eat the last of it but her stomach already protested. She was full — over-satiated some might even say — and she knew from experience that if she ate even just a little bit more she would feel much worse.
She looked across the table and was unsurprised to see that Yolanda’s plate was empty to the point of looking clean. Every speck of lasagne and salad had been eaten and every millilitre of their respective sauces had been wiped away by bread. Her side plate and cutlery were neatly stacked on top of the plate and she’d even taken her napkin off her lap, folded it and squared it next to the stack. If there were any sauce stains on the white linen, she’d made sure to hide them within the folds. It was as though all of it had just been dropped off by their server, straight out of the dish machine, fresh from the ironing board.
“You look like you’re done.” Yolanda wore a smile that was like her side of the table: tidy. There were no visible breadcrumbs on her loose black cardigan nor were there any red sauce dribbles on the white dress she had — in Cristina’s esteem — bravely worn to an Italian restaurant.
Cristina almost replied, “So do you.” but, before she could, she stifled a laugh at her own joke which ended up coming out as a high-pitched snort. He shoulders heaved with silent giggles for a few seconds before she realized that her joke wasn’t even funny and got herself back together.
Yolanda raised an eyebrow. “What the hell was that?”
“Nothing.” Cristina could feel her cheeks reddening. The restaurant was well lit; there would be no hiding it in the shadows. “It was, nothing.”
Yolanda still looked concerned but she didn’t ask again. Instead, she stood halfway up, craned her neck and looked around the dining room for a moment, likely trying to get the server’s attention. “They’re not very attentive,” she said softly after she’d sat back into her seat.
Cristina could only nod in response. She always felt uncomfortable talking about the service or the food while still in the restaurant, even though the room was noisy and there was no way they were being overheard. When she went to the movies, she couldn’t even bring herself to criticize the film until she had left the theatre parking lot.
“How was the seafood plate you almost finished?”
“Heavy,” said Cristina, relieved that Yolanda dropped the subject of the service, “but in a good way.”
“The way you started going at it, I thought you were going to inhale the whole thing three minutes after they brought it to you.”
“Yeah I had to have my lunch early because of some back to back meetings.” Cristina sighed.
Yolanda laughed. “Kyle?”
“How did you guess?”
Yolanda didn’t respond but offered a sympathetic smile for which Cristina was grateful.
“You’re lucky you’re not there anymore,” she said after a few beats. She suddenly felt far more nervous than she ought to.
“Chill girl,” said Yolanda. “You can talk about your boss with your friend.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Cristina took a deep breath. She tried to hide her anxiety behind a forced smile even though she knew Yolanda would see right through it.
“Especially with your friend who used to have the same boss.” Yolanda’s face turned serious. “I swear, he’s not standing behind you. if him or any of his associates suddenly walk into the restaurant, I’ll let you know.”
Once again, Cristina felt some gratitude toward Yolanda for her solidarity.
“You know,” she said as she felt a newfound calm wash over her, “I forgot how nice it is to talk to someone who’s been on the inside.”
