Tickets dinging. Shouts from the kitchen. Bustling busboys. Waitresses arguing with line cooks. Customers arguing with the manager. People eating and people laughing and chatting.

Saturday nights in Manhattan were always such a busy time. Especially when people were picking up to-go orders.

Tonight, in particular, everything was just going downhill. One of the to-go orders had come 30 minutes late and now was complaining to you about how their food was cold.

"I got here when I got here! Go back to the kitchen and have them remake it! It's my right, bitch!" He screamed in your face. You tried to do something but everything you were doing wasn't working so you relented and just walked briskly back into the kitchen.

Micheal- otherwise known as Mike- Rossi yelled and commanded the kitchen with ease, grease spitting sometimes onto his tattooed forearms. He groaned as he ran his free hand through his auburn hair, not even looking up as he heard the kitchen doors swinging open.

"Look- Is it hard to stay out of kitchen, can we just do our frickin' jobs or-"

His voice was so hard and clippy, until he lifted his head and met your eyes. His gaze and frame seemed to soften a little as he realized it was you.

"Hey sweetheart, what's the matter?"

His voice was much softer now as his eyes flicked down to your wringing hands.