Having to get the later bus means being trapped in a packed cage for twenty minutes with an army of school children. At a set of traffic lights the bus driver starts yelling from his seat that everyone needs to settle down or he will pull over and throw everyone out. There is silence, except for a few giggles. Then everything starts all over again when the lights turn green, and the bus driver doesn't stop. Eventually they all fall out of the bus a few stops before mine. I watch them through the safety of the window. They ignore the separating kerb between the pavement and the road and already I can hear car horns. A boy of about thirteen starts banging on the window next to me as the bus starts to pull away. A group of five other boys are standing behind him and laughing and as the bus pulls further away I see he has his hand down his trousers.
Mozart is not there when I get to work. There are no customers either. I start my shift by going through the clean cutlery and dividing them into sets of knives, forks and spoons. I then take a serviette, wrap it around the cutlery and dip a triangle in water, tying it all together. I walk through the kitchen door. Mozart is standing over the deep sink with his blond hair in his face. He looks up at me and nods. I smile back at him.
A couple are standing at the bar. They both have suitcases with white tags around the handles. The man has white hair and a dark tan. The woman has dark hair and an olive complexion and looks at least ten years younger. The man tells me they would both like Irish coffees. I tell them to sit where they like and I will bring it over to them.
Making Irish coffee is one of the few duties I enjoy at work. There is a certain chemistry in getting it right and making the whipped cream stay on top. Once I am satisfied I place both glasses on a tray and take them over to the couple. The woman is silent and does not say a word. The man with the white hair and dark tan thanks me and calls me babe. The top buttons of his shirt are undone and reveal more white hair on his chest. I say thank you and walk back behind the bar.
The couple drinking Irish coffee leave, the white haired dark tanned man thanking me once again as the woman walks out the front entrance, expressionless. I take an empty tray to pick up the empty glasses. The tables are now empty and Ant comes out to tell me to go on my break. Mozart brings my plate out as well as a plate with a sandwich on it. He puts the plates opposite each other on the table and goes back behind the bar to pour himself a pint of coke.
'It's not busy,' he states as he sits down to his sandwich.
We sit there, eating and drinking, not talking, as the music changes from Big Band to Bebop. I wait for the sound of the door, which will force me to put down my knife and fork and pull myself up from my chair. But the door doesn't open and we stay seated. We start to talk about what was on TV last night, Mozart tells me he tries not to watch too much TV and that he finds it too distracting. I think about him revealing these tiny bits of information to me about himself. I think about what I know about him. That he plays the violin; he is from Poland; he washes dishes where I work. I also now know that he does not like to watch TV. Not a lot really.
I watch him as he bites into his sandwich with the same effort and expression as when he is washing dishes in the kitchen. I want to ask him where he is from in Poland. I want to find out when his birthday is. There is mayonnaise on his lip and he shyly wipes it away.
The sound of the door opening surprises me and I get up to see Ant wiping his hands and coming though the door from the kitchen.
'So... What are you two talking about?'
We both look at Ant in silence as he grins back. I want to look at Mozart to see how he is reacting but I realise that this has the possibility of creating more drama than it's worth. But the comments keep coming, regardless.
'Has he shown you his "violin" yet?' Ant laughs, making inverted comma marks in the air with his hands. 'Maybe you should compose her something, Mozart.'
Mozart gets up from his chair and takes his empty plate to the kitchen. I finish eating while Ant sits beside me. After a while I break the silence with: 'Y'know, you don't have to be such a prick to him.'
He laughs and asks: 'Why do you care? He probably can't understand half of what the fuck I'm saying anyway.'
The sound of a plate breaking comes from the kitchen and Ant leaves the table swearing to himself.
Mozart is not there when I get to work. There are no customers either. I start my shift by going through the clean cutlery and dividing them into sets of knives, forks and spoons. I then take a serviette, wrap it around the cutlery and dip a triangle in water, tying it all together. I walk through the kitchen door. Mozart is standing over the deep sink with his blond hair in his face. He looks up at me and nods. I smile back at him.
A couple are standing at the bar. They both have suitcases with white tags around the handles. The man has white hair and a dark tan. The woman has dark hair and an olive complexion and looks at least ten years younger. The man tells me they would both like Irish coffees. I tell them to sit where they like and I will bring it over to them.
Making Irish coffee is one of the few duties I enjoy at work. There is a certain chemistry in getting it right and making the whipped cream stay on top. Once I am satisfied I place both glasses on a tray and take them over to the couple. The woman is silent and does not say a word. The man with the white hair and dark tan thanks me and calls me babe. The top buttons of his shirt are undone and reveal more white hair on his chest. I say thank you and walk back behind the bar.
The couple drinking Irish coffee leave, the white haired dark tanned man thanking me once again as the woman walks out the front entrance, expressionless. I take an empty tray to pick up the empty glasses. The tables are now empty and Ant comes out to tell me to go on my break. Mozart brings my plate out as well as a plate with a sandwich on it. He puts the plates opposite each other on the table and goes back behind the bar to pour himself a pint of coke.
'It's not busy,' he states as he sits down to his sandwich.
We sit there, eating and drinking, not talking, as the music changes from Big Band to Bebop. I wait for the sound of the door, which will force me to put down my knife and fork and pull myself up from my chair. But the door doesn't open and we stay seated. We start to talk about what was on TV last night, Mozart tells me he tries not to watch too much TV and that he finds it too distracting. I think about him revealing these tiny bits of information to me about himself. I think about what I know about him. That he plays the violin; he is from Poland; he washes dishes where I work. I also now know that he does not like to watch TV. Not a lot really.
I watch him as he bites into his sandwich with the same effort and expression as when he is washing dishes in the kitchen. I want to ask him where he is from in Poland. I want to find out when his birthday is. There is mayonnaise on his lip and he shyly wipes it away.
The sound of the door opening surprises me and I get up to see Ant wiping his hands and coming though the door from the kitchen.
'So... What are you two talking about?'
We both look at Ant in silence as he grins back. I want to look at Mozart to see how he is reacting but I realise that this has the possibility of creating more drama than it's worth. But the comments keep coming, regardless.
'Has he shown you his "violin" yet?' Ant laughs, making inverted comma marks in the air with his hands. 'Maybe you should compose her something, Mozart.'
Mozart gets up from his chair and takes his empty plate to the kitchen. I finish eating while Ant sits beside me. After a while I break the silence with: 'Y'know, you don't have to be such a prick to him.'
He laughs and asks: 'Why do you care? He probably can't understand half of what the fuck I'm saying anyway.'
The sound of a plate breaking comes from the kitchen and Ant leaves the table swearing to himself.
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