“Did you just seat me with Thurston Howell?” I asked the manager. The man at table 10 had an English accent, a striped Oxford shirt under a tweed sport coat, and spread his arms across the table like a black jack dealer. “Tell us what’s good,” he trilled. I found out later he was an actor from Los Angeles. His name, though I won’t repeat it here, was something similar to Thurston Howell, or Winthrop Westinghouse, or Damian Forrest or Tybalt Whitney. You get the idea.
Sexual tension with aforementioned manager ratcheting up a notch: I have brief, mid-dining room fantasies while I’m carrying martinis about making out with him in the alley behind the coat room. “Ew, not,” my roommate says, not understanding at all. Tonight, he came up beside me while I entered an order in the computer and lightly rubbed the small of my back, which became taut at that moment. Which, if I didn’t think he was so hot, would so be against the law. But these digressions turn food-service hours into hot minutes. They are vital.
Besides, this is the best part. I don’t want to ruin it by actually making out with him in the alley behind the coat room. Please.