Andrew weaved between tables like a ghost, careful and invisible. His coworkers—faster, louder, bolder—snatched tables before he could blink. “Next one’s yours,” said Marie, the shift lead, without looking up from the espresso machine. It was a rare concession.
He nodded, muttering a thank you she didn’t hear. He took a spot near the host stand and waited. The bell over the door chimed, and in walked six people—four men, two women, all laughing loudly, the kind of laughter that filled a room before they even sat down.
Expensive watches, flashy sunglasses resting on their heads, the unmistakable air of people used to being served. Andrew’s heart lifted. A group that big meant a fat check. Maybe this was the table that could make up for the rest of the day. Or the week.
He launched into service mode: warm greeting, friendly banter, extra napkins without being asked, drink refills on cue. He even remembered who wanted their dressing on the side. He made sure everything came out perfectly, pacing his steps to make it all look effortless.