Smart Mouth Waitress (Romantic Comedy) (Life in Saltwater City)

by Dalya Moon

  “Sure.”

  A few seconds later, he held his phone up, showing me a photo of my own face, from a month ago, when I had dreadlocks. “I'm face-friending you,” he said.

  “I will accept,” I said.

  My own phone was in my pocket, turned off, and I fought the urge to take it out and check to see if he really had requested to friend me.

  Twenty minutes into the movie, after being shushed several times by Britain for my funny comments during the film, my bladder demanded a washroom break.

  In the relative quiet of the ladies' room, I turned my phone on and accepted Cooper's friend request. A moment later, when I was peeing, a message popped up from him:

  You snuck out!

  Me: Bathroom break.

  Cooper: We should go get some real food.

  Me: Right now?

  Cooper: Meet me outside the doors.

  Me: Sounds like a plan! Yes.

  After I came out of the stall, I quickly washed my hands and scrubbed my teeth with my finger. I looked up at the water-splashed mirror to check my face, shocked to see two metal balls framing my right eyebrow.

  I really did just get my eyebrow pierced, didn't I? What a weirdo. At least it looked cute. I dried my hands on sandy brown paper towel, then very gingerly touched my fingertip to the end of the piercing. It hurt, but not as much as I expected.

  The piercing looked like a good one, for all I could tell. I'd seen home-pierced ones that were too close to the surface, and they seemed to be working their way out of the person's face. This one looked secure. I wondered how it would look with another one next to it.

  “Admiring yourself?” someone said.

  I turned to find Cooper, inside the ladies' room, watching me.

  An older lady washing her hands next to me gave him a wide-eyed look and shook her head.

  I ran toward him, pushing him away with hand gestures. “Get out of here, ladies' room pervert,” I squealed.

  Laughing, he said, “I didn't see anything, I swear. Besides, I have a sister and she pees around me all the time. I can't get her to stop.”

  Right, his sister was the blue-haired girl, Sunshine, who was also Marc's ex, the one he probably “just got out of something serious” with.

  Out in the movie theater lobby, I said to Cooper, “Food of many lands?”

  “You mean the food court? No way. Let's go somewhere. I know a Greek place that does great seafood.”

  “I don't really do seafood.”

  “Typical girl, always has to be so difficult,” he said, smiling. “They have other things too. You can have the chicken, or the lamb, or the vegetarian stuff.”

  “Okay,” I said as I walked toward the movie theater, so I could let Courtney know I was ditching her with Britain.

  Cooper said, “Let's just leave them and make them think you were abducted.”

  I laughed into my hand. “No, bad idea. How would you feel if your sister disappeared mid-movie?”

  His face got serious. “You're right. My bad. Go tell them.”

  I crept into the theater and told Courtney I was going off with Cooper. She made a crude blowjob gesture just to horrify me and Britain.

  “Not like that,” I insisted, but I did feel naughty sneaking off with him.

  When I came out of the theater, Cooper looked adorable, studying the movie posters in the hallway. Is there anything cuter than a guy by himself, waiting for you?

  We made our way out of the theater lobby, toward the elevator. Once in the elevator, with some other people, he turned to me and said, “You'll love this Greek restaurant.”

  “You're a good salesman,” I said, wondering if the other people in the elevator thought he was my boyfriend.

  He said, “That's a good thing, because I am no painter.”

  “Don't say that. Your paintings are really nice.”

  “Yeah, they really are,” he said, grinning widely. An older Asian lady with a wheeled cart smiled at him and then me.

  We reached our floor, and as we walked through the parkade to find Cooper's car, he told me a bit about some large-scale pieces he was working on for a custom order—a commission, he called it. The way he talked about his work didn't sound like bragging, but it didn't sound weak and insecure, either.

  When my mother writes a new song, she paces around the house, talking about how terrible it is—how awful, how pedestrian—then my brother, my dad, and anyone else who pops in for a visit, all have to boost her back up by raving about how talented and luminous she is. She really is a wonderful songwriter and singer, and I'm not just saying that because I'm her daughter. It's easy to be supportive when you believe.

  The other artist in my life, Courtney, can get uptight about her tiny-handed sculptures, though I'm saved by much of the drama by not living in the same house as her. Before she shows me something, I'll ask her to tell me what she wants: critique or support. She always says critique, but I give her ninety percent praise, because I really do love everything she does. Her work has a tribal sensibility to it, but from the future, like from some post-apocalyptic new civilization.

  I don't mind being my mother's or my best friend's cheering squad, but it was refreshing to be around Cooper, an artist who was also his own support group.

  His car was black and sleek, but not flashy. He mentioned he'd had all the brand-identifying features removed when he'd purchased it, which I thought was cool, but also defeated the purpose of buying such a nice car. The interior of the car was spotless, and the electric seat warmers were a pleasant surprise for my bum when he started the engine.

  There wasn't a lot of foot room, so I put my purse on my lap.

  “Is that a bowling ball bag?” he asked, reaching over to stroke the top-stitched leather stripes.

  “Vintage,” I said. “I got it at the same place as my wrestling boots.”

  He reached down and actually touched my purple and yellow boots, which had been worn by some small-footed wrestler guy before they became mine. There had been some dark stuff staining the laces, and my mother was concerned I'd catch some blood-borne contamination from the boots, so she'd made me give them an overall bleaching, along with the bowling ball bag.

  Cooper ran his hands up and down my shins—well, up and down the laces on the outside of the boots. It gave me a shiver, and made me glad I'd put on a cute outfit for the day instead of jeans.

  On my legs, I wore lace leotards—not the trampy kind, but the ones that look like granny doilies. Because I had a lot of color going on with the purple and yellow boots and the big yellow purse, I wore a dark gray dress paired with a gray trench-style jacket the same length as the dress. My hair was up in a loose bun, so I had to turn my head to the side a bit to rest my head on the headrest of the car.

  When I faced Cooper, he kept turning to smile back at me. I didn't want to distract him from driving, so I turned to face the window instead. It had been raining when I left the house, but the weather had gone through a typical Vancouver mood change, and the sun was bright gold around us.

  We drove for a bit in contented silence.

  Cooper parked the car on a side street, off Kingsway, and ran around to open my door for me. “I haven't been here in ages, I hope they're still in business,” he said.

  “There's a Mexican place over there, just in case.”

  “Sheesh, what have you got against Greek food?” he joked.

  “I don't know if I've ever had it, actually. Besides Greek salad.”

  “You are missing out,” he said as he held open the restaurant door for me.

  Out wafted a scent that removed any doubts I'd had about eating there. My stomach started letting me know it might be interested in this fancy Greek food.

  The restaurant was huge, maybe five times the size of The Whistle, with seating on several platforms of varying heights.

  “The waitresses must get a real calf workout,” I commented as a young man showed us to a quiet corner booth.

  House plants—live one
s, not plastic—trailed down from beams over my head. The sun peeked through some clouds and flooded the place through several skylights.

  My eyebrow tickled and I touched my new piercing before I could stop myself. A little zap of pain shot through me. “Yow!” I said.

  “That piercing's new,” Cooper said.

  “I just got it today. At Human Arts.”

  “That's cool. They did my frenum.”

  Breathlessly, I said, “What?”

  “Joking.”

  “I don't even know what that is.”

  He grinned at his menu, eyebrows raised. “Maybe I'm joking, maybe I'm not. Who's to say?”

  I pulled out my phone and looked it up. A frenum piercing makes the penis look like it's wearing a little bow-tie. I was pretty sure Cooper was joking, but he had made me think about his pants-business, which I realized might even be a good portion of the point behind getting piercings in that area.

  The menu, with its myriad of strangely-named and hard-to-pronounce items, did little to take my mind off what might be under Cooper's stylish clothes.

  He said, “That piercing of yours makes me want to nibble on your eyebrow.”

  I didn't quite know how to deal with his forwardness, so I said, “What's halloumi, is that the fried cheese? I think I had that once before. I don't know.”

  “You're thinking of the flaming saganaki.” The waitress had just arrived at our table, so he turned to her and said, “We'll start with the saganaki, and I'll have a Coke.”

  The waitress wore Uggs, which my boss at The Whistle would never allow. Her jeans and shirt were awfully casual, and I assumed she had to be family, perhaps the daughter or granddaughter of the owners.

  I ordered an iced tea and asked a few more questions about the menu.

  “Why don't we have the Greek platter for two,” Cooper said to the waitress. To me, he said, “This way you can nibble a bit of everything. My treat.”

  The waitress turned to leave, whipping her long, black ponytail. Under the table, Cooper nudged my knees with his, which may have been accidental. I sat up straighter in my chair.

  Everything was happening so fast. I should have still been back in the theater, watching the end of John Carter. Looking at the cute guy across from me, I got that giggly, giddy feeling, like when you skip out of school and go to McDonalds with your friends, then throw french fries at each other until the manager kicks you out. I wasn't supposed to be there. I was being bad.

  “Tell me about your family,” I said.

  He counted them off on his fingers. “Workaholic, shopaholic, hypochondriac, and just plain crazy. In other words, normal. Tell me about yours.”

  “Neurotic rock star mom, nerdy city engineer dad, and surprisingly well-adjusted younger brother.”

  “Does he look like you?”

  “No, he looks like a boy.”

  “That's not what I was implying. You're a very attractive girl.”

  I turned my head to the side and patted my bun, like a girl in a stage play trying to show she's flattered.

  “I mean it,” he said. “Marc's crazy.”

  My back tensed. “He told you how he friend-zoned me?”

  The waitress set our drinks in front of us. I was so eager for a drink, yet so nervous, that I choked on the first sip and spent a minute coughing hard and trying not to make gross choking sounds, but failing.

  “The friend zone is underrated,” Cooper said. “A lot of nice things can happen there.”

  A Greek-looking boy about my brother's age, not the one who seated us, set up a folding stand next to our table. A sizzling, popping sound came from nearby.

  “That's ominous,” I said.

  Cooper waved out his napkin and spread it across his lap.

  “Should I be scared?” I asked Cooper as the waitress approached our table, presenting a platter crowned by blue flames.

  “Relax and go with it,” he said, grinning.

  She put the flaming, sizzling, popping platter on the stand and doused the fire by squeezing juice from a lemon over the blocks of breadcrumb-coated cheese.

  My mouth watered.

  Cooper cut me off a chunk, but I insisted on only taking a little slice on my plate, not sure if I would like it. The first mouthful was a revelation: salty, gooey, rich, crunchy, and sweet and tangy from the lemon juice. Salty and sweet together!

  “So good,” Cooper said. “Life is worth living with food like this.”

  I moaned around the cheese in my mouth.

  “How do you like me now?” Cooper asked.

  “I like you a LOT for bringing me here. Oh, man, I don't care about what else is coming. I just want to eat this saggy-necky.”

  He laughed over my pronunciation. “Saganaki. But hey, you call it whatever you like.”

  The second bite was just as good as the first, and we were both competitively eyeballing the remaining portion on the serving dish. Cooper insisted I take the remainder, saying, “Watching you enjoy the saganaki is almost as good as eating it myself.”

  Chapter 13

  When the rest of the food came, I almost panicked. There was so much, and I didn't want to look like a pig in front of Cooper, but I also didn't want to waste his money.

  “Do you think they'll wrap the leftovers?” I asked.

  “Of course! Just try a nibble of everything and I'll be happy.”

  So, nibble I did. And it was all wonderful, even the potatoes, which looked like nothing fancy, but melted in my mouth like butter.

  Cooper seemed happier with every bite I took.

  What is it about a guy who wants you to experience the same things they enjoy that's just so … enjoyable?

  My friend Haylee's boyfriend, Andrew, actually wrote out a list of things it was important for his girlfriend to experience—and this was before he'd even started dating anyone. Before the girl, he had the list, which I suppose was better than a list of measurements and hair color.

  Haylee had to watch a bunch of Quentin Tarantino movies, and then they moved on to the movies that had inspired Quentin Tarantino, including some really bizarre, violent stuff. Nowadays, Haylee says she likes seeing people's severed heads roll around in the snow like bowling balls, but I suspect she may be brainwashed. In my opinion, most girls don't like that decapitation stuff nearly as much as a good makeover or shopping montage.

  Cooper and I didn't talk about horror movies or much of anything after the big food platter came. When I asked him questions about his life or what he did when he wasn't painting, he insisted it was “too tedious to discuss” and changed the topic back to me.

  You'd think I'd enjoy talking about myself non-stop, but it gets old. I mean, I've totally heard all my stories before.

  After dinner, Cooper drove me back to my house. I was looking forward to being able to relax by myself and decompress from our sorta-date, but I offered to show him my house, just to be polite. To my surprise, he accepted.

  The reason I was surprised was because—and I feel I need to repeat this, in case you've forgotten—Cooper is really, really attractive. You may recall me describing Cooper as so attractive, he could sell diet cereal. He is a ten. I don't have body dysmorphia or anything, but I do know I am not a ten, not even on a good day.

  As it was a Friday, my father was getting home from work just as we were walking up to the front door. My father shut his car door and gave me a look that indicated he was surprised to see me touring another young man around the house, for the second time in one week, but that he wasn't going to blow my cover. I'll admit, I was delighted by the scandal of it all, innocent though it was.

  He was so distracted by Cooper, he didn't even notice my eyebrow piercing. Another symptom of his ADD is he fails to notice things that are changed. My mother could replace all the furniture in the house while he was at work, and he'd come home and sit on a sparkling disco-ball chair, his only confusion being wondering where the remote control was.

  We all got inside the house, and after a moment
to show him our family photos in the front hall, I led Cooper to the kitchen, where my father was finishing a glass of grapefruit juice.

  “Is your friend staying for dinner?” Dad asked.

  “No, but I have all this amazing Greek food for you guys to eat.” I put the bag of fragrant take-out on the counter.

  Cooper opened the kitchen cabinet, located a glass, and poured himself some filtered water from the fridge. “Unless you want to stay?” I asked Cooper. “You seem comfortable.”

  “You keep your glassware in the most logical place,” Cooper said, tapping the cupboard. “I like this family. The energy's in good harmony here.”

  “Dad, Cooper is also friends with Marc,” I said, my voice sounding like a Kindergarten teacher. “You met my friend Marc for dinner the other day.”

  “Right,” Dad said, apparently unsure of how much more to mention. I couldn't blame him for being confused. The situation wasn't exactly clear to me either. Cooper had paid for my dinner, which seemed to imply date, yet he'd also talked a few times about the benefits of friendship. There was the gap of our attractiveness differential, but he had said those flirty things about piercings.

  Dad rinsed out his glass and poured some water, then asked Cooper, “How old would you say you are?”

  “I'd say I'm twenty-one.”

  Not bad, three years' difference, I thought.

  Dad seemed satisfied with that and began digging into the fragrant, tinfoil-wrapped takeout containers. Within seconds, Garnet was also in the kitchen, not so interested in Cooper, but very keen on the Greek food. After we'd eaten our fill at the restaurant, there hadn't been much left over, so Cooper had ordered some more meat-on-a-stick things, souvlaki, when I'd mentioned cooking dinner for my family was my current duty.

  As I stood leaning on the counter, watching Cooper easily chat with my father and brother, showing them how “everything's better dipped in tzatziki,” I thought about how lucky a girl would be to date him.

  My next thought was this: If I go on a date with Cooper, Marc will get jealous.

  That was when I knew I probably wasn't that into Cooper, despite his clean-cut, fair-haired good looks. Maybe he was too nice, too easy-going, and I preferred my guys a little rougher—a bit surly, like a porcupine. I tried to picture Cooper in a skinny black t-shirt instead of his pastel button-down shirt. Yes, a black t-shirt would help a lot, I thought.