I need line cook Frank in my asshole. I want him. NO I NEED HIM! Like imagine he notices a customer getting creepy with you as you take their order. Probably ogling at your tits bc you for sure wear a push up bra to work and have your work shirt on the lowest button possible. You have to step out after you take their order for a smoke and he follows you, offering a lighter but definitely stealing a cigarette at the same time. He comforts you and tells you not to deal with those assholes BUT ALSO definitely makes fun of you for having your tits out while also staring at your tits. Then he gives you backshots in the parking lot after work. UGHHH CRYOOOO I NEED MORE LINE COOK FRANK PLEASE WRITE MORE I'M GONNA NUT
After a month of working the dinner shift, you had found the winning combination of makeup, hair, and outfit that resulted in the biggest tips—pink lip gloss, pigtails, and a shirt barely buttoned. Tits pushed up to heaven, voice high and sweet, and a bit of perfume to offset the burnt-oil smell permanently stuck to your uniform.
You’re no better than a stripper, really, but at least you get to keep your clothes on. It was a shitty gig, sure, but tolerable enough to keep you stuck longer than you wanted. And maybe you were easy to please, or just plain desperate, but a free meal every night and three cigarette breaks per shift placated you a little too well. It wasn’t the job itself that was so bad. It was the customers—specifically the old blue-collar union types that came in after long shifts.
One of them gets handsy at booth six—old, liver-spotted fingers lingering at your waist a beat too long as you lean down to refill coffee mugs. You laugh it off, smooth and practiced, and step back before it turns into a scene. You debate walking out the front door and never coming back, but your gas tank is almost empty, and your credit card bill is due next week. You need this job.
Lucky for you, it’s slow enough to go out back for a smoke.
You lean against the crumbling brick wall, the metal dumpster to your left warm and sour-smelling. You light your cigarette and let it burn your throat as a punishment. The smoke hangs low in the air, and for a minute you just stand there, counting exhales until you feel rational again.
“Can I bum one?”
You hear him before you see him.
Frank, who was too cheap to buy his own cigarettes, interrupts your second smoke break of the night. Normally, you’d give him a hard time. But you weren’t in the mood to argue.
He plucks a cig from your carton and pulls a lighter from his apron.
Out of all the shitty coworkers you’ve had, Frank was your favorite—or the most tolerable, at least. He was hot in that scummy way only line cooks and drug dealers could pull off—covered in tattoos ranging from bad to worse, and shaggy black hair that curled perfectly around his ears despite sweating over a blacktop stove all day.
He takes a long drag, giving you a slow once-over and barely holding back a smile as he exhales through his nostrils.
“You making good money tonight?”
You shove him harder than you mean to. Frank takes it like a champ, stumbling backward with a shrill laugh. You think he secretly likes it when you’re kind of a bitch, like he enjoys the abuse. He doesn't mind that you play rough. He can handle it. It’s boyish and gratingly charming, but you’d never admit that. It would go straight to his head.
“You’re a dog.”
“Does that make me man’s best friend?”
“No, it makes you a dog.”
Frank nods in agreement, pulling another drag.
A tired silence falls between you, and Frank looks off toward the employee parking lot to avoid staring at your tits obnoxiously popping out of your button-down. You’re pretty sure he saw the whole thing earlier—the wandering hands, the tense smiles—but he doesn’t bring it up. He lets it stay unspoken in an effort to protect your dignity. He’s trying to be a gentleman, but you wish he wasn’t. His chivalry makes you feel embarrassed and stupid all the same.
And unlike those old creepy men, you wouldn’t mind if Frank stared at your tits. You might’ve even liked it.
“They ordered the steak and eggs, right?” he asks mid-exhale, stubbing the rest of his cigarette out on the brick wall and tucking it behind his ear for later.
“Yeah. Just put it in. Why?”
There’s a pause. You can practically see the wheels turning in his head.
“You want me to spit on it?”
Your eyes narrow, and the smile Frank’s been withholding finally stretches across his face, dishwater-hazel eyes soft and mischievous. This motherfucker is crazy, you think to yourself, He’s disgusting. The butterflies swarming your stomach prevent you from generating a fully formed thought, so you just…stare at him—hoping he would be the first to let up, but knowing he’s not the bluffing type.
He stares back, patiently waiting for your answer. Stubborn motherfucker.
“Knock yourself out.” You shrug coolly, only pretending not to care.
“You got it, boss.”
He turns on a heel, returning to the dinner service chaos.
You watch him leave, fondly observing the way his tacky pink belt barely prevents his ripped jeans from falling down his ass.
“Hey, Frank—” you call out.
He looks back, halfway through the kitchen door. You make a show of adjusting your tits, grabbing two handfuls and squeezing for emphasis, cigarette dangling from the corner of your mouth. The night was already going to shit. Maybe leaning into it would make you feel a little more in control—like you had a choice.
“You can get a closer look at them after work if you want.”
