Fish Tales
Plenty of Fish
I am standing outside the restaurant, waiting for my date to arrive. The sky is golden, almost dark. The waves crash behind me like they are trying to match the pounding of my heart, but they can’t keep up. The cars pass by and my heart skips each time. One slows, but there must be a red light up ahead, because they’re all slowing now, and I don’t know if any of them are her.
Between me and the ocean is the restaurant, Mandarin King, hustling and bustling and — I now realize — altogether too fancy for a first date. Too fancy for me. I am wearing jeans and a nicely pressed button-up shirt dotted with fish that curve around each other in an endless pattern. Thank god for the shirt, because my jeans are worn from use and a little frayed at the hems. I haven’t been brave enough yet to go back to the men’s section for a new pair. I kneel down to the sun-warmed concrete and tug at a stray thread. A plane whines by above, crickets chirp in the dark distance, and all around me the scent of the sea hangs heavy in the air.
My phone buzzes. I jump, my hand leaping to my pocket. It’s her, of course, and she’s running late, of course, and she wants me to get our table. I turn and push through the door of the Mandarin King and, as a bell jingles my arrival, I see it.
There is only one, brilliant, metallic orange bold against the dark water, graceful fins propelling it forward. The candy-colored rocks beneath it pale in comparison. The fish commands my attention as it swims up to the cool glass and fixes its glossy black eyes on mine.
I go up to the counter, bend down, and watch it until I hear a woman clear her throat.
“Excuse me, but do you want a table or do you just want to stare?”
I straighten up and find myself facing a young Chinese woman, her left eyebrow arched, her arms crossed.
“Your fish is very beautiful,” I say.
“Yeah, so?”
“Well.” I flounder. The fish flicks its tail and swims away from the glass.
“Table for two.”
She leads me to a table by the window. There are two plates, two sets of polished silverware, two expertly folded cloth napkins the pale pink of a seashell’s belly. I sit and stare at the empty seat across from me.
As the minutes drag their feet and the woman at the counter starts throwing increasingly concerned glances at me, I switch my focus to my phone. Radio silence from my date.
The girl from the counter brings over a starter salad and another concerned glance. I pick at the tangy greens and try to ignore her eyes drilling into me. Eventually, she leaves.
The sun slumps in the sky as I slump in my seat. Golden sunlight, then pink twilight, then orange street lamps illuminate my sorry state. The girl from the counter returns with a steaming plate of fried rice.
“Uh, I didn’t order that,” I say.
“I did,” the girl says as she slides into the empty seat. “I’m on my break. I’m Joan.”
“I’m Cass.” I push some salad around on my plate, avoiding Joan’s piercing gaze. Joan doesn’t respond, just nudges the plate of rice closer to me.
“I’m not really hungry. My date stood me up, I think. She’s very beautiful,” I say, holding out my phone with my wayward date’s profile.
“Yeah, so?”
I look down at my phone, then close the app. “How long is your break?”
Joan smiles.
Just Keep Swimming
I’m standing inside my restaurant waiting for my shift to be over. Mandarin King is as crowded as ever, crammed full of bourgeois beach-goers and their sticky-fingered children. The light filtering through the windows is the soft, buttery kind of gold that marks the halfway point of my shift. Anyone else in a beautiful beach town on a weekend night would be having the time of their life, but I’m stuck here with hours still to go. I drum my fingers on the counter in a ceaseless rhythm and try to avoid eye contact with any customers.
A bell jingles, signaling the arrival of yet another guest. I only catch a glimpse of tousled, sandy-colored hair as the person immediately bends down below the counter. I suppress a sigh. The last thing I need is another inconsiderate teenager clogging up our entryway just to stare at the fish. After waiting a second to see if they will leave of their own accord, I clear my throat.
“Excuse me, but do you want a table or do you just want to stare?” I ask, trying and probably failing to keep the irritation out of my voice.
The person stands up and I see her face for the first time.
“Your fish is very beautiful,” she says. I immediately change my mind about this shift being boring. This girl is hot. Her eyes are a clear ocean blue and I can’t help but notice how tight her rolled sleeves are over her biceps. A moment later, I realize I need to say something. Stay cool, Joan, I think to myself.
“Yeah, so?”
“Well.” The girl fidgets with the keys clipped to her belt loop and glances back down, presumably at the fish she likes so much. “Table for two.”
My face stays a stony customer service calm, but my heart sinks. Of course she has a date. As I lead her to her table, I try to console myself by thinking that she’s probably straight anyway. Lots of straight girls are cutting their hair short these days. But her hair is a men’s cut, not a pixie, and what straight girl would use a carabiner to attach keys to her belt?
I try to stop my mind from wandering too far. Even if she isn’t straight, she does have a date. Either way, she has stopped paying attention to me, staring instead at the empty seat across from her. Her shoulders are ramrod straight and she is once again messing with her keys.
I decide to give her some space and head back to the counter, but I can’t help glancing back at her every now and then. She has her phone out now, but she isn’t using it, just staring at it. I’m usually bored nearly to tears at this point in my shift, with the sunset outside just begging me to come see it over the beach cliffs, but this girl has me caught like a fish on a line.
When I bring her the starter salad, I sneak a peek at her phone. On the screen is the dating app profile of a pretty blonde girl. I carefully hide my excitement. Yes! Judging from the lack of blonde girls in the restaurant and the way the butch girl is picking listlessly at her salad, I might have a chance after all. I return to the counter to plan my next move.
As soon as the sun sets and the street lights flicker on, I order a plate of fried rice and clock out for my break. As I carry the rice to the table, I feel hyper aware of every step, every breath. I hope I read her right. I hope I don’t mess this up.
“Uh, I didn’t order that,” the girl says, furrowing her brow.
“I did,” I say, summoning all my courage and sitting down across from her. “I’m on my break. I’m Joan.”
