Nicole
I remove from the mop from the bucket, and press it against the tiled floor. Leaning on the handle, I push the fibers of the mop back and forth, and watch as their grey strands leave foamy streaks of soap in scattered patterns.
Sometimes I like to imagine that I'm a painter wielding a giant mop brush—painting the place in wild streaks.
I'm a firm believer that a restaurant's safety and success hinges on how organized and clean a place is. And judging by the amount of soap I'm using, this floor is going to be clean enough to eat off of.
Not that I'd suggest that, but just saying …
As I push the mop, I perform a mental checklist—disinfect prep surfaces, wipe down the splash walls, clean the grill, pour a drain cleaner in the floor drain, run the hood filters through the dishwasher—check, check, check.
I'm making good progress, and even though it's late, I kind of like how quiet and solitary this place is after hours—when the guests are gone and everyone else is back at home. It's when I do my best thinking.
The quiet. The monotonous movements of cleaning. I can just let my mind wander.
Unfortunately, my mind keeps wandering back to the same thing: Palmer.
It's a tortuous loop.
His charisma. The way he can effortlessly keep a conversation. The way he can make me laugh. The way his eyes pierce me and reel me in. And of course what he can do in bed …
I shake my head. No. Not again.
I can't be thinking about him. It was one night, and it was a mistake.
A big mistake.
But I'd be lying if I said he wasn't constantly on my mind.
I let out a sigh and push the mop back into the bucket, rinsing it of soap and the day's grime.
I decide that the only way I'm going to stop my brain from overthinking is to listen to some music. I grab my cell phone, and press my music-streaming app.
Let's see … I think I need to channel my grandmother right now. She always knew how to cheer my up and keep me motivated, and she's truly the reason why I'm in the restaurant business.
I scroll through my music options and stop on Doris Day. My grandmother's favorite singer. I play a song and immediately start dancing around the kitchen.
It transforms me.
"Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, the future's not ours to see, que sera, sera."
I spin on my toes and reach my arms out, as if I'm giving the world a giant hug. I'm sure I look ridiculous right now, but I don't even care.
I'm loving the music. It lifts me. And it feels as if my grandmother is here dancing with me right now.
"When I grew up and fell in love, I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead, will we have rainbows, day after day, here's what my sweetheart said, que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, the future's not ours to see …"
Why is it that every song turns to love?
If I didn't love this song so much, I'd change it, but whatever, I'm just gonna continue to dance this out.
I spin, and twirl, and yes, I even picture myself doing all of this in the strong, muscular arms of Palmer.
I know … I know … I just can't help it. I don't know what's wrong with me.
It's probably for the best that I'm never going to see him gain.
Sex with him is too good. Is that even a thing? Sex as too good? I probably sound insane. Regardless, I'm going to go on record and say it is. I'm living proof.
The chorus of the song comes back on, and in one final move, I run across the kitchen and do a small leap in the air—just like the way Baby jumps into the arms of Johnny Castle in the movie Dirty Dancing … except, it's not like the movie at all and I don't land in a man's arms—I land in the dirty mop water.
Well, that's not exactly accurate. I bump against it and the brown water splashes into my shoes.
There goes my mood.
I can feel my pulse kick in agitation.
I reach for a towel and try to soak up as much of the water as possible, but now my feet are damp and cold, and I don't want to be here anymore.
I want to go home, and soak in a bath, and pet Whiskers.
I want to pour myself a glass of wine, and wear seat pants with an elastic band, and maybe even pig out on pizza and binge watch Netflix.
I wipe the sweat from my brow, and then take my ponytail out, letting my hair fall down and cascade around my shoulders.
I start flipping off all the light switches and reach for my keys when I hear something that makes me stop. It sounds like a low rumble … and it sounds like it's coming from right outside of my restaurant. I take a peek out of the front window and see a motorcycle parked at the curb. A man is unstrapping his helmet.
Who in the hell is parking here at this hour? Doesn't he see the place is closed, and—
But I once the helmet comes off, I recognize the man immediately, and my heart beats so fast I feel dizzy.
It's a total body reaction and nothing I can do or say will make my heart mellow out.
The man is Palmer.
I greet him at the door and unlock it for him.
I go to open my mouth, but not a single word will come out, and before I can get a word in he places both of his hands on my shoulders and pushes me up against the wall. Then, he leans down and his lips crash against mine.
It's the best kiss of my life.