Spices

I wrote this story as a joke with a friend, but part of that joke involves it being posted on the internet. Enjoy!

The smudged glass doors swung open, cueing a mournful “ding-dong”, dragged reluctantly from the overworked, exhausted intercom. He sighed, setting down his damp rag on the counter, feeling rather overworked and exhausted himself, and arranged his features into a falsely cheerful grin to greet the customer. When he saw her, however, a genuine smile broke out beneath the veneer, creating tiny crinkles in the corners of his mouth and eyes, imperceptible individually, but collectively brightening his appearance.

She had long, smooth dark hair, a mouth made for giggling, and large, round blue eyes which glittered when she laughed. She came here often, but did not keep a schedule. Like her smiles, her visits were a welcome surprise, a golden break in the monotony of fast food. He’d seen her debit card enough times to know her name, but he never let himself use it; to name her would be to make her real, to unravel the fantasies he created about who she was.

“How can I help you today?” he said brightly, stepping behind his register, his hands hovering above the keyboard, ready to type in her usual order.

“The usual, please,” she replied, offering up a small, somewhat sheepish smile.

He gave her the familiar total while she dug in her bag for her familiar wallet, just as they had the first time she’d walked through those doors, as they had every time since.

There was nothing inherently remarkable about her the first day. She was just another customer. It wasn’t until after she’d placed her order that he’d really looked at her, giving an identity to someone who was once just another faceless consumer. She had ordered eight tacos and water. It did not seem to be a joke, nor was there anyone with her who could have dared her. In amazement, he watched surreptitiously from behind the counter as she delicately ate each taco, dabbing daintily at her mouth with the paper napkin. Nothing so dignified had ever spent so much time in The Taco Hut and it fascinated him.

Sometimes she brought other people with her-a group of giggling girls, a somber friend, even the occasional disappointed male- but most of the time she came alone, quietly eating her tacos in a shallow booth by the largest window. She took her time, savored each mouthful, and shut out the rest of the restaurant while she chewed. It was peaceful, like a meditation or a prayer.

There had to be a reason she spent so much time in that taco dump-heap. It was not known for either its cleanliness or the superior quality of its food, it wasn’t on any main thoroughfares, and it wasn’t a chain. Usually he imagined she was a famous actress, hiding from her press, seeking refuge in plain sight. Occasionally he would suppose she came from an abusive family, that these calmer moments were her only source of respite. His imagination ran wild with her image, but each story found a way to block his reality from touching hers. He imagined himself into corners where if he dared to step beyond, to ask her name, to develop a friendship even, something foul would occur. The press would find her, her father would beat her for trying to escape with another man, or she would be frightened and never come back.

Someday, he told himself while he waited for her next arrival, someday I’ll get out of my head. I’ll ask her what her name is so I can stop pretending I don’t already know. Someday I’ll know why she keeps coming back.

As he handed back her card, he resolved, not for the first time, that upon her next visit he would introduce himself. She smiled as though she could read his mind and sighed a little before grabbing her water cup and ducking over to the fountain to fill it.

Soon she was ensconced in her booth, and he had returned to his thorough wipe-down of the counter tops. He took his turn in sighing before sliding back into the kitchen to clean up a cheese spill. As he swept the sticky orange strings into a garbage can he heard the door’s lugubrious song once again. Glancing out into the dining room, he saw her paused, her hand on the door handle, holding it open a few inches. She caught his eye.

“Goodbye.”

He smiled and lifted his hand in farewell as she disappeared.

She didn’t come back. Not that week, nor the next. It was not unheard of for her to disappear like this, but nonetheless he was disappointed. Every sound of the doorbell spiked his heart rate, but the face of every stranger pulled him down until he could feel his pulse pumping dimly in his feet. A month went by, and then another and it became clear that she was never coming back. It was as if someone had taken a giant eraser and scrubbed her out of her booth, then replaced her with a bevy of screaming toddlers and scruffy bums scarfing tacos and dripping sauce onto the sticky tabletop. She had escaped, and so he moved on.

“You’re wasting your time, kid,” his wizened manager grunted from the corner of his crusty mouth. He spit into the sink before continuing, “no one is gonna buy some damn gourmet taco. Go ahead, go to night school, blow your money on a fruitless dream, but don’t bring your whining back here when you fall on your ass.”

When he didn’t respond, eyes glued to the floor, his manager grunted once more before shuffling back into his tiny office, slamming the door. He continued sprinkling spices into the giant pan of sizzling meat. The right blend could make or break a taco, a fact his manager was keen to ignore. He ignored the gruff criticism of his superior and the ignorance of the old sod, because one day, he would own his own restaurant, and his perfect tacos would be his ticket to freedom, his chance to escape.

The day he turned in his uniform, the manager didn’t say a word, just shook his head as he grudgingly handed over the final paycheck.

*************************************************

“She’s here,” squeaked a waiter, a kid about as old as he had been when he started his job at The Taco Hut. “Madame Cutler,” the boy sighed, in awe of the famed food critic who was apparently now seated in the restaurant. “Do you think she’ll like us, boss?”

He peered through the window in the kitchen door at the back of Madame Cutler’s head. She could hardly be more than a mademoiselle; her sleek, dark hair was twisted into a glossy chignon and delicate pearls dangled from her ears. She sat perfectly straight in the soft velvet chair, shoulders exactly parallel to the floor, but she did not seem tense. Her posture and her attire conveyed an air of relaxed dignity, a woman who knew her power and her limits equally.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, he clapped his waiter on the back and said, “If our service is spectacular, I’m sure she will,” and with that he pushed the quaking boy back out onto the floor.

He watched as the waiter took her order with a nervous smile. As soon as the kitchen door shut behind him, the boy let out a sigh of relief. Then he was off again, a perfect taco in the center of his tray. Fifteen minutes later, when the waiter approached his boss his relief had vanished.

“She wants to see you, sir,” the boy whispered, wringing his hands. “This is it, isn’t it?”

“You did well, kid. Wish me luck!”

His heart was hammering as he walked slowly towards her table. He hadn’t remembered this much distance in his restaurant. Suddenly his suit felt too shabby, his ginger beard too scruffy, the furnishings too lurid, the place settings too cheap, and the ambiance too fake. When at last he reached Madame Cutler, he couldn’t look her in the face, his eyes fixed on the swirling pattern of the tablecloth.

“I’m impressed,” she said, her voice a strangely familiar lilt. “I admit I was not expecting to enjoy this, but I have a fondness for tacos, and I had hoped so strongly that yours would be satisfactory.” He nodded, still not looking up. “Frankly, they’re wonderful. The spices are just right. The right blend can make or break a taco, you know.”

Her last sentence made his head snap up. Then he froze. “I…I’m glad you enjoyed them, Madame Cutler,” he choked, barely above a whisper, unable to believe his eyes.

“It was my pleasure. It always was,” she replied, her large, round blue eyes glittering as she laughed.