Page 15 of Tarek

Her cheeks redden, making her freckles stand out more.

The door swings. A pimple-faced, pubescent-looking guy comes out carrying a tray of hot buns.

She instantly straightens. “What can I get you, sir?”

“Sir?” My eyes hold her stare as a smile of remembrance hits her face.

“Um, what can I get you?”

“Regular coffee and three hot snickerdoodle cookies, please,” I reply.

Her fingers move briskly over the white flat screen. “The coffee is free and the cookies are $3.50.”

Taking a good look around, I casually said, “I should have ordered your cookie it taste better and its more expensive.”

The cash register beeped as I quickly swiped my phone.

Within seconds, coffee and a greasy brown bag of cookies slide across the table. I give her a nod and a smirk. As I pass the disgruntled looking people in the line, I shove my shoulder against the glass door, to push it open.

A small voice catches my attention. “My name is Lena by the way.”

I look back at her smiling. “That’s nice, but I like Bella more. Because look at you, you’re beautiful.”

She clasps her hand in front of her and rocks. Look at her thinking that I care about her name…poor child.

It takes me thirty more minutes to get to my restaurant. Pulling a break in front of the Glasshouse, I sigh as I take it all in. This was my baby. She is an exquisite blend of glass and industrial elements, embodying both elegance and strength, exactly how I love it.

Jogging up the stairs with the keys and a cup of coffee in my hand, I open the front doors. The clean scent of lemon and basil surrounds me. This is my favorite time of the day. There is a calm that greets me when I enter Glass House. The refracted light from the sun beams through the glass windows.

The white tablecloths rest on the tables like sleeping ghosts. Pressing my palm against the silver saloon doors, I stand still as the lights are automatically flipped on.

I don’t feel pride about a lot of things, but Glasshouse is my pride and joy.

Everything inside here, I worked my ass off to achieve. Why am I this early? I like the quiet as I get ready for the day ahead and I also like my staff coming in and seeing me here first. As if it reminds them that working in the kitchen means that we are all in this together. Grabbing my apron off the hook, I begin to work.

In the hours that I am here alone, I create the stocks, brine some chicken, break down some beef. I love seeing my knife slide through the cuts of beef and tuna.

Up next, I salt and blanch the skin of some fillet snapper. It’s now two pm and Natalie my pastry chef arrives finding her station, she begins her prep work. Bit by bit staff trickles into the kitchen.

The knock on the back door signifies that my premium groceries are here. After washing my hands, I inspect the groceries as they are being wheeled in. I bring a truffle to my nose, inhaling the earthy musky scent.

“Paulo, Perigord Truffles at $650.00 per pound feels like a rip off,” I say, throwing the truffle back into the box.

Paulo Bineco, takes off his baseball cap and scratches behind his head. “That’s the price the boss has it as, Mr. Fairisles.”

I pay but make a note to call the farmer to inquire about the price. It’s now 5:30 p.m., I’m sweaty and covered in blood and God knows what else.

The kitchen is running like a well oil machine. My head chef Marco is here, with a nod to him, I leave, and I should be back before 8pm.

* * *

PENNY

“I just wanted to say, ‘Fuck you, Rhet Banner.’ He was so mean at work today.” Zeeta voice empties from my speaker phone.

“I think he likes you, and you like him,” I reply finishing the last few lines of code on my screen.

The phone becomes silent. I stop my typing and stare down at my phone.

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