a person known to you will make sudden contact | solittle | 600 words
Valentine’s Day dinner was a bloodbath.
Tickets stacking up, everyone in the shit, and Ned - as always - had to keep his head straight, keep calm and carry on: stiff-chinned and upright, voice metronome-steady while the rest of the brigade threatened to devolve into mutiny.
Now he’s in a different establishment altogether - low music, candlelight, paper hearts taped to the exposed brick like a half-hearted primary school craft project. All a bit naff, but a respite nonetheless.
He’s already seated, coat folded neatly on his lap and phone face-down on the table. Just as he’s about to check the time once again, Ned’s blind date slides into the seat opposite, dropping his jacket over the back of the chair.
“All right, chef?”
Ned looks up, and his polite smile freezes on his face.
“Tozer?”
His prep cook looks different outside of the kitchen. He hasn’t changed out of his apron, and there’s a smutch of flour on his left cheekbone, but the soft lighting doesn’t hurt his looks.
“That’s me surname. Don’t really fancy you callin’ me that all night, though, now shift’s over.”
Ned makes a mental note to curse out John later for setting him up with a coworker - an employee, no less. “You’re Solomon.”
“Well done.” Solomon raises his head as their server appears and graciously orders for them - two beers - then turns back to Ned without missing a beat.
“And you’re late,” Ned says, not to be deterred.
“Closing up after the bloodbath. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Ned winces. “You knew it was me?”
“Guessed from your description. ‘Tall, dark, handsome, wound tighter than a duck’s arse--’”
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” Solomon allows.
Ned doesn’t let the crack at his last name register; he’s heard them all by now. It’s still not that funny.
Their drinks arrive. Fiddling with the label on the bottle, Ned can’t keep the sourness out of his voice. “I don’t need any lip from someone who dices onions for a living.”
Ned’s cheeks warm. He knows how hard Tozer works; prep isn’t an enviable shift. It’s his own fault for not putting two and two together. For having agreed to this in the first place.
Mildly, Solomon goes on: “I work across from you six nights a week. Not my fault you don’t recognize your underlings.”
“Tozer--”
“It’s Solomon, thanks.”
“Sorry. Habit.” His face is only going redder.
“Well, you can stop,” says Solomon. “I’m not going t’ slice you up.”
“I said I’m sorry,” Ned fires back, on edge again. “Are you always this forward?”
“Only,” Solomon says, “when I like the company.”
He grins, and takes a slow sip off his beer.
Ned, in spite of everything, watches him do it. “That’s forward,” he says.
A shrug. “I’m pacin’ meself.” Solomon’s still grinning, still at his ease. Ned can’t help but feel he’s enjoying this, which only makes him more flustered, more defensive.
Plainly some of this is evident on his face, for Solomon adds, “Relax. We’ve just been sat, I’m not goin’ to jump your bones.”
