[attr="class","rcposting1top"]

[attr="class","rcposting1mid"]


Waiters and waitresses, Evelyn had come to conclude, were useless.[break][break]

As a teenager breaking into the work force, she'd been rather specific about what sort of jobs she would and would not acquire, the likes of which had severely limited her option pool, but easily saved her a great deal of grief later on in life. For starters, nothing in fast food, regardless of pay, would be able to lure her in. She'd heard nothing short of horror stories of the conditions there between childish managers, idiotic customers, and a smell that simply refused to wash out of the clothing and hair. Second of all, she wouldn't be persuaded into a job in the medical areas, either, regardless of how nice an extra couple dollars in her pocket every month would end up to be. Illness had her standing on edge as was, and if the mere sight of tears had her heart threatening to break out of her chest, she wasn't so sure she could spent her time in a building filled with the ill and the dying. Last of all – and arguably most important of all – was that she was never to ever become a waitress. Tempting as the idealistic version splattered across television might have been, what with cozy little taverns and customers who knew you like the back of their hand, it was one of few things that she hadn't allowed herself to be caught up in a fantasy over. What with the – once again – idiotic, not to mention rude customers and the fluctuation of pay based on performance (perceived performance, that was), it was a job doomed to failure. Not to mention that there always seemed to be one or two of those incompetent co-waiters-or-waitresses that were bound to have one tearing out their hair. As it turned out, she'd landed herself a rather nice job under her mother's watchful eyes, the likes of which she was certain were due to her skill (and were, in reality, only a result of nepotism), so worrying about an occupation long behind her should have been out of the question. It wasn't even as though she saw much of them and the customers they served, cooped up as she was in the kitchen making sure that nothing was running behind. And yet they and their bumbling drama always managed to worm its way into her life. They and their inability to show up to work on time, and that was assuming that they even bothered to show up to work at all. It was some precious wonder why her mother kept the ones that she did when anyone with a functioning brain could tell that they did quite the opposite of pulling their own weight. It would never have occurred to her, angry as she was and maybe just a pinch too haughty, that it might have been due to the fact that when they didn't show up, she was ejected from the kitchen and out into the maze of tables. There really was a lot less smoke when the lower workers didn't bother to clock in.[break][break]

The chef's lack of proper social skills, or really much of any skill required for such a job as waitressing could have been seen from a mile away. She must have been at this for an hour and already, she'd spilled three drinks and ruined an order almost beyond repair. Restraint was something she generally lacked, but the little bit she had was certain being put to good use; there was one particular man in the back who she believed deserved a good kick in the face, but the maintenance of her job (and the guilt that always came in trudging afterward) dictated that she keep her shoes planted firmly on the ground. Not that it was all that hard to forget his sour attitude the moment she was pulled away from his table; up until that particular point, the restaurant had been bustling with more activity that she'd ever thought it would have – oh, much easier life was as a cook – and it was hard to stew over one thing for too long when table five needed a refill and table twelve had been waiting to be served for ten whole minutes. Any sound minded person would know that even the current wane of activity was just the calm before another storm, but she in all of her overly hopeful ways was certain that the lull was a sign of... well, at least a moment to take a break and breathe. A gaze around the room said that most everyone was doing fine, and the only waiter who had bothered to show up would be more than capable of handling a refreshment or two. That left her with one more order to take – that of a lone blond at the window wearing the most ridiculous shirt she'd seen all week – before she could chance a second to sit down and calm her aching feet. To say that she didn't plan to breeze through this as quick as possible would be a lie. What did it matter if he was annoyed by her brisk pace? She deserved a bit of a breather, at the expense of one hundred percent customer satisfaction or otherwise.[break][break]

“Sorry about the wait. We're kind of short-staffed today,” Evelyn said, taking the few strides it took to get from her last table to the nameless stranger's with noticeable haste. Also noticeable was her lack of a proper smile, the likes of which were meant to be worn by anyone doing this sort of job. Just because her mother demanded she pick up on others slack, apparently as much outside as inside the kitchen did not mean that she had to play their part perfectly, and there had simply been too much aggravation in the day to try – and fail – to force a smile for someone she didn't even know, much least care to know. “Can I get you anything to drink?” And maybe a hoodie or something while she was at it? Without really meaning to, she found her eyes being drawn to this idiotic t-shirt that he had on, as much confused as to why he was wearing such a light outfit in the later days of winter as she was by the idea that anyone would knowingly purchase and wear something with that kind of slogan on it. Anyone else might have thought she was looking (staring, really) intently at his chest, but truly, her thoughts were solely on how wise an investment a coat or something of that nature would be right about then.

[attr="class","rcposting1bot"]