Valentine's Day was the second busiest day of the year, I had heard, after Mother's Day. I couldn't imagine a restaurant more bustling than what I witnessed that late morning, when I arrived for work at just before 10:45, seeing a crowd of guests awaiting the opening of our doors.
The business of the day kept my mind occupied, so much so that, when two dozen red roses arrived for Sheila around two in the afternoon, I was not there to observe her initial reaction. But I did hear her excited cry of, "They're from Grant!" as she inhaled their fragrance. And I watched as she hugged the vaseful of thorny stems, as if holding her beloved Mr. Lawyer, carrying them back through the kitchen.
It was fortunate, then, that I managed to catch the second delivery man just half an hour later, spying him through the double front doors. I stepped out quickly, as the pudgy guy – about my age –- held up a crystal vase full of roses on his way to the restaurant.
"Who's the lucky girl?" I asked, sounding casual.
He gave me an annoyed look. "Some chick named Sheila," he said.
I frowned. "Oh. Damn. She doesn't work here anymore."
He almost dropped the vase, his frustration more than evident. "What?"
I forced a laugh, pulled out a ten-dollar bill from my bank. "Look. They're already paid for, right?"
The guy shrugged. "Yeah."
"Give me the flowers," I said, and pushed the ten-spot into his hand.
"Uh . . . sure," he responded.
I took up the flowers, went back inside. Trying not to think of Sheila and the way she was bragging about the flowers her boyfriend had sent, I settled the vase on the hostess stand, giving the girls there an amiable smile while deftly (I hoped) taking the card and slipping it into my apron. "Happy Valentine's Day," I said, then stepped away.
***
Sheila was positively glowing for the rest of the shift. Naturally, with her constant bragging about how 'sweet and thoughtful' Grant was, I didn't want to hear it. So, of course, I avoided her. It was pretty childish on my part, of course, but I wasn't thinking much differently than when I had been seventeen or eighteen. I felt snubbed.
My mood wasn't easily assuaged by the fact that I waited on doe-eyed lovers all day, staring at one another with stars in their eyes. From young couples on their first date to septuagenarians celebrating their fiftieth anniversary, reminders were constant that I was going to head home and spend the rest of the day alone. And frustrated.
Sheila, I figured, could tell that I was spurning her. At first, following the arrival of the roses, she gave me sort of sheepish, almost apologetic, looks. But as I continued to avoid her, she became quietly defensive, and spurned me in turn. Whenever I would meet her eye, I would receive nothing but coldness.
I had not had the chance to enjoy a smoke break all afternoon, so when four-thirty came, and my relief was taking over my section, I hustled out to the back dock for some much-needed nicotine therapy. There was no one else back there, and I relished the lack of cacophony as I lit up.
Ah . . . just a few minutes of 'me' time . . . .
The door flew open, then closed quickly. Sheila stared at me, her expression somewhere between anger and sympathy. "You haven't been talking to me," she said.
I ground my teeth a moment. "Enjoying your roses?" I asked acidly.
Sheila crossed her arms, her nose reddening a little. Her eyes drifted away as her lips twitched in thought. "Are you
jealous
?" she asked.
I blinked, my ire instantly inflamed. "'Jealous?'" I echoed, nearly shouting the word, making Sheila blink. I backed off, suddenly confused as to how I thought. "No, of course not," I said with a measure of calm, pulling on my cigarette.
"Look, Nate," she said. "You knew I was with Grant when we started fooling around. And . . . I like hanging out with you, but if you're gonna be like this, maybe we should just stop."
I knew I was infatuated, then, because her threat all but literally made my heart leap in my throat. Sheila had me wrapped around her finger, and I abruptly realized it. I could suddenly feel myself becoming, and looking, contrite. "It's not . . ." I sighed, pausing, trying to find a way to both endear myself to Sheila and keep my machismo intact.
"I don't want to stop."
Sheila softened, smiling slightly. "Look, baby, you've been really cool with keeping this private. That's why I keep coming to you. I like being with you. It's like . . . I don't have to worry about anything when we're together. I really need that."
There was something behind her words – I really didn't recognize it consciously at the time, but still, it was there, and I somehow sensed it – that made me feel bad for avoiding her. Sheila suddenly seemed frightened, like a child in need of a friendly and recognizable face. The dynamic, it seemed, had shifted. Maybe she was the one who needed something.
I met her eyes, slightly quivering as they were. "I don't want to stop," I said again.
Sheila didn't speak. For a long moment, neither of us even moved. She just stared. I waited for her to do or say something. Finally, she did.
She took two quick steps, breathing in deeply as she did so, and grabbed my head. The kiss she gave me was fierce, hot, desperate. She moaned into my mouth, undulated her sweet body against mine. I felt like she was going to suck my heart out through my mouth, such was the intensity of her kiss.
She finally pulled back, just a little, giving us both room to breathe. I inhaled her scent, caressed her back. "I wish I could have you tonight," I whispered.
Sheila took a moment to compose herself, then backed off, not looking to me. She seemed suddenly embarrassed, perhaps even dazed. "Um . . . I still got a table," she said, then turned to the door to the restaurant and yanked it open.
I watched her go, even more perturbed than I had been before.
