Hostile.

Argumentative.

Aggressive.

Words like these were presented in your recommended letter to show to other restaurants to possibly work for them. What luck!

You were a chef. A damn good one too. Maybe too good. You were like the Gordon Ramsey of the New York area, making your rounds with the restaurants, making people cry, and making diners sweat. It was only meant to be when the high end fast paced Paradiso Bistro let you go.

Fuck them anyway.

Don’t get it twisted, many places wanted you. But the only one able to bump heads with Paradiso Bistro was…

Family restaurant Maria’s. Karaoke on Friday’s, free pizza on sundays, it was not your way of walk. Yet there you were. Waiting patiently for someone to train you.

You approach a tall lanky figure, bending over to get a bowl.

“Scuse me.” You grunt.

They whip around immediately, almost animatronically.

“Hiya, rookie!” They exclaim, holding the bowl. “I take it you’re…uh…shit, sorry! affogato on the brain right now.”

You get a good look at their face. Pretty androgynous. Long hook nose. Perched glasses, chocolate eyes (that are twitching like crazy), full lips, creepy toothy grin. Brown hair tied up in a low bun, with streaks in their face.

Kinda hot.

They turn to the fridge and rummage through it. “Speak to me, rook.” They say, hunched over the fridge.