Brianna isn’t, and anyway, that has nothing to do with this.
“My mom has been out of high school for a few years now,” Mick reminds Patty, “and anyway, I’m not giving her the gift certificate. She’s giving it to someone at work for a Secret Santa. That’s this thing where they leave each other little gifts every day next week, and then on Friday they—-”
“I know what a Secret Santa is,” Patty cuts in.
“You do? Am I the only person who’s never heard of it before?”
“Pretty much,” she says, walking over to the cash register. “Okay, I’ll ring up your gift certificate.” In a lower voice, glancing at the two customers who show no signs of leaving any time soon, she adds, “Too bad I can’t ring up their checks, too, so we can get the hell out of here.”
“Maybe we can flicker the lights or something.”
“Not allowed. The first rule Mrs. Marrana ever taught me was never to rush customers out the door.”
Mick doesn’t bother to point out that Mrs. Marrana herself rushed out the door earlier and will never know. Patty has worked here much longer than he has, and she’s probably even more eager to get home to her boyfriend than Mick is to go finish an overdue chemistry lab. If he doesn’t hand it in tomorrow, it’ll cost him a letter grade. That wouldn’t be that big a deal if he wasn’t barely hanging in there with a C--minus.
Patty hands him the gift certificate, then quietly tells him she’s going to the ladies’ room to put on some lipstick. “If they leave, lock the door and flip the sign right away.”
“Don’t worry, I will.”
As she walks away, Mick weighs the wisdom of flickering the lights while she’s gone.
“Don’t even think about it,” she murmurs without turning her head, and Mick can’t help but grin.
It fades when he glances again at the two customers who stand—-or rather, sit—-between him and freedom.
How can -people be so dense?
Both appear to be in their thirties or maybe forties. He can never tell how old older -people are. Both are wearing businesslike clothing; neither wears a wedding ring. The guy has a beard and glasses; the woman is slightly overweight with strawberry blond hair and a pretty face. Mick watches her absently lift the little teapot to add more hot water to her cup, only to realize it’s empty. As she glances around to summon a refill, he quickly busies himself sorting clean silverware that’s already been sorted. Twice.
“Excuse me?” she calls pleasantly. “Can I please get some more water for my tea?”
“Um, actually . . . we’re closed.”
She looks at her watch. “What time do you close?”
“Well, the kitchen closes at nine--thirty on weeknights, so . . .” He shrugs and adds, “I’m really sorry.”
Her pleasant tone and expression evaporate. “I’m not asking for another entrée. Just some hot water so that I can finish my tea.”
You just did, he wants to say.
Instead, he offers another unapologetic apology.
She scowls and looks over at the man at the next table, clearly expecting him to speak up and protest this outrage. He turns a page of his book as if to punctuate the fact that he’s ignoring them both.
With a beleaguered sigh, the woman goes back to typing on her iPad, probably posting a negative online review about the rude busboy at Marrana’s Trattoria.
Five minutes later, she’s still typing and Patty is still in the ladies’ room when the man abruptly snaps his book closed, reaches for the check folder, glances at the bill, and tucks a few bills inside. He stands, retrieves a navy peacoat from the rack, and heads for the door with a cursory “Thanks.”
“Good night,” Mick calls after him, hoping the female customer will take the hint.
She does, so promptly that for a moment Mick wonders whether they’d arranged some kind of secret rendezvous without him noticing.