Your Job Isn't Enough For Her

The soft glow of crystal chandeliers bathed the upscale dining room of La Belle Époque in warm golden light. The clink of silverware and low murmur of wealthy patrons filled the air, mixed with the faint scent of seared scallops and aged wine. You'd only been working here a couple weeks, trading in your old dead-end spot for something with better tips and a shot at stability, but the irony wasn't lost on you tonight.

The hostess's voice cut through the ambiance. "Brynn? Party of two? Right this way."

Brynn stepped into the restaurant like she belonged, even if her posture was a little uncertain. Her long brunette hair was swept into an elegant updo, a few soft strands framing her face. The fancy black dress hugged her figure perfectly, modest yet flattering, ending just above the knee. Her makeup was flawless: smoky eyes, perfect lashes, that soft rose lipstick you'd kissed a hundred times. Black high heels clicked softly against the marble floor as she followed the hostess, clutching a small clutch purse. She looked beautiful. She looked nervous.

The hostess led her to a prime table near the window, pulling out her chair. Brynn thanked her quietly, almost meekly, and sat down, smoothing her dress. She checked her phone, then glanced toward the entrance, clearly waiting for someone. Her green eyes held that familiar optimistic softness, but there was a hint of anxious hope in them, like she was trying to convince herself this was the right path.

A few minutes passed. No date yet.

You were the closest waiter on the floor. It was only a matter of time before you'd have to approach her table, water pitcher in hand, and face the woman who had left you because "I need someone who can take care of me, someone with a future." The same woman who still looked at you like she remembered every late-night talk, every time she'd curled up against your chest dreaming about a nice home and kids.

She finally glanced around the room, and her eyes locked onto you. Her lips parted slightly. Color rose in her cheeks. For a second, the perfect, put-together facade cracked, and you saw the emotional, still-very-much-in-love Brynn underneath.

She quickly looked down at her menu, fingers tightening around the leather edge, but it was too late. She'd seen you.

The warm glow of La Belle Époque wrapped around the elegant dining room as you approached the table with their drinks. You were their assigned waiter tonight.

Brynn sat gracefully in her fancy black dress, long brunette hair pinned in an elegant updo, perfect makeup still flawless after hours of effort. Her green eyes widened the moment she saw you. A soft flush colored her cheeks and she instinctively sat up straighter, looking both startled and emotionally vulnerable.

Across from her was Greg, 35, the bank VP. He was stocky and broad-shouldered, clearly in good shape, with short brown hair and a trimmed beard. He carried himself with loud, arrogant confidence as he finished ordering.

“…and I’ll have the duck curry,” Greg declared without consulting Brynn. “She’ll take the salmon. Gotta keep that figure tight, right babe?” He gave a self-satisfied chuckle, completely missing the brief flash of discomfort on her face.

Brynn offered a meek, quiet smile and nodded. “That sounds nice, thank you,” she said softly, though her eyes kept drifting back to you.

You had already taken their drink orders earlier, a bold Cabernet for Greg and a glass of Pinot Grigio for Brynn, and delivered them. Greg was now mid-monologue about his Tesla Model S and some “brilliant” financial strategy he was pushing at the bank, barely letting Brynn get a word in.

As you stood at their table setting down fresh bread, your coworker Taylor passed behind you on his way back to the kitchen. The 22-year-old femboy, with his alternative look and chill stoner vibe, leaned in close and murmured under his breath so only you could hear:

“Yo… duck curry for him, salmon for her. Both plates are up in a few. You want any secret extras in their food, man? I got you covered. Just say the word.” Taylor gave you a lazy, knowing smirk, completely unfazed and down for whatever.

The elegant ambience of La Belle Époque was suddenly interrupted by loud, tipsy laughter from a corner booth.

Gina and Helen, both 29 and clearly on a wild girls’ night, were making a scene. Dressed in tight, scandalously short outfits that left little to the imagination (Gina in a plunging red dress, Helen in a backless black number), they had already gone through two bottles of wine. Their makeup was bold, their voices carried across half the dining room.

“Oh my God, this is ridiculous!” Gina exclaimed dramatically, waving her empty wine glass. “Where is our waiter? Hello?! We’ve been waiting forever for more bread!”

Helen leaned back with an obnoxious giggle, purposely knocking over her water glass so it spilled across the table. “This service is trash! We’re paying way too much for this. Somebody hot better come fix this right now!”

Several heads turned. Greg glanced over with a smirk, muttering something under his breath. Brynn, still seated across from him in her elegant black dress and perfect updo, looked uncomfortable at the disruption. Her green eyes flicked toward you with quiet concern.

Gina spotted you approaching and immediately straightened up, pushing her chest forward. A drunk smile spread across her face. “Well hello there. Finally. We need another bottle of that Sauvignon Blanc, some more appetizers, and maybe your number while you’re at it.” She winked exaggeratedly while Helen laughed and added, “Yeah, and clean this mess up, cutie. We’re very high-maintenance tonight.”

The upscale dining room of La Belle Époque was buzzing. You had just delivered fresh drinks to Brynn and Greg’s table when the commotion from the corner booth escalated.

Gina and Helen, both tipsy and thriving on attention, had been watching the whole night. They clearly noticed the charged looks between you and Brynn.

“Hey, handsome!” Gina called out loudly, waving you over. Her plunging red dress barely contained her heavy tits as she leaned forward. Helen, in her backless black outfit, smirked beside her, swirling her wine.

Gina immediately lowered her voice as you approached just enough for only you (and maybe a few nearby tables) to hear, a mischievous, intoxicated grin spreading across her face.

“So… we’ve been watching. That’s your ex over there with Mr. Loud Tesla Guy, right?” She glanced toward Brynn’s table. “She keeps staring at you like she wants to cry into her salmon. So fucking obvious.”

Helen leaned in, eyes sparkling with drunk excitement. “We can help you make her jealous as fuck if you want. Just say the word. We’ll flirt hard, laugh loud, touch you… whatever it takes. I bet she’ll be squirming in that boring little black dress in two minutes flat.”

Gina bit her lip, clearly turned on by the idea of causing drama. “We’re already drunk and bored. Helping you mess with your ex sounds way more fun than the rest of this night. You in?”

At Table 12, Brynn was trying hard not to stare, but her green eyes kept flicking over. She looked beautiful yet anxious in her elegant updo and fancy black dress, fingers nervously tracing her wine glass. Greg was loudly chewing his food and talking about himself, completely unaware.

Gina reached out and playfully tugged at your apron. “Come on, cutie. Let us help you give her a show she won’t forget.”

The lively buzz of La Belle Époque was momentarily drowned out by Gina and Helen’s loud laughter and demands from their corner booth.

You were balancing a tray with a fresh bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and two glasses, heading toward their table, when Taylor burst out of the kitchen doors carrying a large platter of appetizers: calamari, bruschetta, and shrimp cocktail, personally delivering them with his usual chill demeanor.

“Got the apps for the wild ones,” Taylor said casually as he walked quickly behind you.

Just as the two of you reached the booth, Taylor misjudged the tight space and bumped firmly into your shoulder.

“Shit- my bad, bro.”

The tray in your hands tilted. The open bottle of chilled white wine tipped and poured straight down onto Helen.

A generous splash of cold Sauvignon Blanc cascaded across her chest, soaking the front of her already revealing backless black dress. The wine ran down her cleavage and over the thin fabric, making it cling transparently to her skin.

Helen gasped sharply, her eyes widening in shock as the cold liquid hit her.

“Oh my fucking God!” she shrieked, half-laughing, half-outraged, jumping up slightly as wine dripped down her torso. The thin black dress was now plastered against her breasts, leaving very little to the imagination.

Gina burst out laughing loudly, slapping the table. “Holy shit, Helen! You just got absolutely drenched! Look at you!”

Helen looked down at her soaked chest, then up at you with a mix of disbelief and drunk amusement. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine she’d already consumed. “You clumsy waiter, this dress is fucking ruined! Or maybe it’s improved?” She let out an obnoxious giggle, making no real effort to cover herself.

Taylor winced, setting the appetizers down quickly. “Damn… that was my fault. Sorry dude,” he muttered to you under his breath before slipping back toward the kitchen.

Across the room at Table 12, Brynn had turned fully in her seat to watch the commotion. Her green eyes were wide with surprise, one hand covering her mouth. She looked visibly concerned… and maybe a little jealous at the way Helen was now drawing all your attention with her soaked, revealing dress. Greg just smirked arrogantly, shaking his head and muttering something about “incompetent staff.” Gina leaned forward with a wicked, wine-drunk grin. “Well? One of you two are gonna help clean her up.”

Helen stood there, chest glistening with wine, staring expectantly at you while the entire nearby section of the restaurant watched.

A toddler at a family table had launched a fistful of mashed potatoes. It sailed in a perfect arc and landed directly on the bald head of a man three tables over.

For a moment, there was stunned silence.

Then, the man with potatoes in his hair stood up, his face red. "What the hell?!"

The toddler's father stood up, defensive. "He's two! It was an accident!"

"It was assault!" the bald man roared, and before anyone could react, he grabbed a bread roll from his basket and hurled it. It missed the father and smacked into the shoulder of a woman at yet another table. Chaos erupted.

A flying dinner roll hit a water glass, sending it crashing to the floor. A woman shrieked as a glob of gravy landed on her designer purse. Someone threw a handful of fries like confetti.

Brynn gasped, ducking as a butter packet whizzed past her ear. "Oh my god!"

Greg stood up, puffing out his chest. "This is unbelievable! The lack of decorum!"

From a corner booth, Helen and Gina, already three glasses of wine deep, watched the unfolding madness with wide, delighted eyes.

"Woo! Get him!" Gina yelled, raising her glass.

Helen, emboldened by the alcohol and the spectacle, grabbed a breadstick from the basket on their table. "This is for my divorce, you bastard!" she shrieked, laughing hysterically, and launched the breadstick across the room. It spun through the air and bounced off Greg's shoulder.

Greg whirled around, his face flushing with anger. "Hey! Watch it!"

Helen just cackled, grabbing another breadstick. Gina joined in, pelting Greg with a handful of olives from their antipasto plate.

Brynn stared at the check in her hands, her stomach twisting into knots. The numbers blurred as her eyes welled up. Three hundred and forty-seven dollars and fifty-three cents.

Greg had slapped his napkin on the table, phone to his ear. “Sweetheart, gotta take this. It’s the Tokyo markets. Be right back.” He’d kissed her forehead, a perfunctory peck, and strode out toward the lobby, his voice already booming about exchange rates. That was thirty minutes ago.

Her clutch felt impossibly small and light. She had her ID, a lipstick, and forty dollars in cash. Her credit card was maxed out from last month’s car repair. A hot, shameful flush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks. She could feel the eyes of the other diners, or imagined she could. The sounds of conversation and clinking silverware did nothing to distract her from the overwhelming feeling of panic and anxiety.

He’ll come back. He has to come back. She clutched her phone, the screen dark. No calls, no texts. She couldn’t bring herself to call him. The thought of his irritated, distracted voice saying, “What? I’m in the middle of something!” made her feel sick.

She looked up, her green eyes searching desperately for a friendly face in the room, but all she saw were strangers enjoying their evenings. Her gaze finally landed on the service station, where you were polishing a wine glass. A fresh wave of guilt cut through her panic. She looked down at the check again, a single tear splashing onto the total.