Writer’s Block is RVA Magazine‘s series highlighting contemporary writers working in Richmond and across the Commonwealth. We feature original poems, short stories, and essays. Just real voices writing right now. If you’d like to be featured, send your work to hello@rvamag.com with the subject line “Writer’s Block.”
Story by Vitoria Aracri DeRoche. Follow her Substack HERE.
Deirdre eyed Evan as he headed toward the walk-in. He pulled hard on the handle, broke the seal, disappeared inside, and shut the door behind him.
Mr. Slim, the mini-split mounted above the line, pushed tepid air around the cramped kitchen. She glanced at the other line cooks. One leaned against the stainless-steel prep table, laughing at his phone while tinny music played from someone else’s cracked screen. The other chopped vegetables.
The smell of white onion filled the air.
In the sacred tradition of front-of-house, back-of-house rivalry, the cooks ignored her as she crossed to the dish pit. Gary, the morning dishwasher, had just finished a rack of silverware. He aimed the sprayer at a sheet pan, ricocheting water onto her freshly pressed shirt.
“My bad,” he said without looking up.
He flipped the pan over and went to town on something crusty with a wad of steel wool. Deirdre’s mouth thinned to a line. She hoisted the rack of silverware and carried it to the server station, setting it down with a clang.
She listened for Evan.
Everyone knew the walk-in was where restaurant staff stored their emotions. Crying. Screaming. Five uninterrupted minutes away from customers. Evan’s visits had become a running joke at Tarrant’s Cafe, and Walt had agreed to pay her a dollar every time she caught him emoting in there.
Deirdre reached for a polishing rag and began separating tasting spoons into a quart container.
A muffled howl came through the walk-in door.
“DULL KNIFE, DULL HEART!”
Deirdre smiled and dropped another spoon into the container. She looked toward the dining room, where Walt was flipping chairs down from the tables. The muscles in his forearm tightened as he grabbed one by the leg. A tattooed opossum jostled for space on his already crowded arm, standing on its hind legs with its mouth stretched around a toothy scream.
The banner beneath it read: BITCHMOND: LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT
“You owe me a dollar,” she called.
“Fuck. He’s already emoting?” Walt lowered the chair to the floor. “Service hasn’t even started yet.”
“The heart wants what the heart wants. And Evan’s heart wants the cold embrace of death.”
She set down the spoon and turned toward Walt.
“And my heart wants another dollar.”
He flipped down another chair and gave her a crooked smile. “Put it on my tab.”
“What are you going to do when I decide to cash in?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
His eyes held hers. The spoon slipped from her fingers and struck the stainless-steel table with a sharp clang.
Deirdre picked it up. “Humidity.”
“Probably.” Walt arched his eyebrows.
They returned to their side work and settled onto stools at the bar to make roll-ups. A stack of black linen napkins sat between them beside the silverware Deirdre had polished. Their shoulders brushed as they laid forks and knives across the centers of black linen triangles. Walt lowered his head, trying not to laugh.
“What?” she whispered.
“I have a new tattoo.”
Her hands stopped. “Shocker,” she deadpanned. “Show me.”
“Not here.”
“Why? Is it on your ass?”
Walt looked offended. “I have standards.”
“Debatable. Working the counter at Absolute Art is really paying off. Are you bringing home any money, or are you getting paid entirely in tattoos?”
“Who wants to know?” Walt asked.
She smiled at him.
He glanced toward the kitchen. “I’ll show you in the walk-in later. Assuming Evan ever comes out.”
* * *
Lunch came hard and fast. By noon, the dining room was full of tourists from the Quirk Hotel who had rolled the dice on the charming-looking restaurant with its white-brick interior and gaudy, gold-framed paintings of places other than Richmond.
By three, only one table remained.
Four campers occupied the large booth, sipping iced tea while one woman picked at the remains of Tarrant’s version of a Reuben, called a Rachel. Their credit card receipt sat beneath her elbow.
Deirdre checked her phone again.
So annoying.
Across the dining room, Walt lifted a cordless DeWalt drill from beneath the bar and tipped his chin toward the kitchen.
She raised her eyebrows. “You trying to drill me?”
“Something like that.”
He squeezed the trigger, and the bit spun.
She followed him past the line. The cooks resumed sharing memes, and Evan went outside to smoke. Walt wrenched open the walk-in, and Deirdre slipped inside after him.
Cold air settled over her damp shirt. It felt good after the rush.
Walt placed the drill on a case of lettuce and untucked his shirt. Deirdre stopped beside a covered hotel pan of tiramisu to watch.
“Whad’ya got?” He lifted his shirt. A yellow-and-black DeWalt drill stretched across his ribs.
She looked at the tattoo, then at the identical drill resting on the lettuce.
“Is this some new kink? Should I be concerned?”
“De. Walt.” He pointed at the lettering.
She stared at him.
“You’re De,” he said. “I’m Walt.”
The uncertainty in his voice caught her off guard.
“You’re so stupid.”
His smile faltered.
“I love it.”
She closed the space between them and kissed him among the marinated chicken wings and the stacks of smashburger patties. Walt’s arms circled her waist. The metal shelf rattled behind them while the fan hummed overhead and condensation dripped onto the floor.
A fist pounded on the walk-in door.
Evan’s voice came through it. “Some of us are trying to cry in there.”
Deirdre drew back just far enough to look at Walt.
“You owe me another dollar.”
He pulled her against him again. “Put it on my tab.”
Story by Vitoria Aracri DeRoche. Follow her Substack HERE.
Photo Bruno BD
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