“I’ll be right back. Do you need something else?” I’m asking him in a gentler tone now because I need to know what’s making his face contort with dread.
“Nothing. Just the check.” I want to walk away, but he stops me dead in my tracks. “Please. I meant, just the check,please,” he asks me while looking around the restaurant. What the fuck is he looking at? I follow his gaze, which has landed on the ugly three-euro painting my boss hung on one of the walls.
Wait, is that—
“Lana, can I get the check, please?” He interrupts my thoughts with his weird-ass questions. “I reallywantto go home.” The emphasis on the wordwantis making my mind race with possibilities about why. I want to ask him if everything is okay, but the diner bell dings, and I see Marco walking in.
Even though I still can’t comprehend what his deal is, his arrival is a nice intermission for my current train of thought. I motion to him that I will be with him in one minute, and he nods his head. My attention is back on the creep again, and I go and get his check.
“Here is the check. I hope everything was okay for you, and that you have a wonderful day.” I linger for a moment because I’m used to him tipping me, but my eyes fly open when I see how much he has tipped me.
He drops what he needs to pay, as well as one hundred Bosnian marks, on the table. This is like winning the lottery.
“I can’t accept that much money, please take it back. I’m just happy to serve you.” The moment those words leave my mouth, his eyes start filling up with tears.
“Please take it. I also have something I need to show you,” he says as he is taking a sharp intake of breath. He puts his rightarm on the table and starts rolling up his sleeve. Is that gauze on his arm?
“What happened? Are you hurt?” My concern is genuine. I hope.
“You need to see this, and then I will be out of your hair.” I nod at him, and when he starts removing the gauze, words appear on the inside of his arm.
Words carved into his arm.
My mouth is agape, and no words are forming when I read what’s on his arm.
I will never be rude to servers again.
I don’t blink, I don’t talk, I don’t move.
When my eyes find his again, we both stare at each other.
We both know who did this.
M.
“Who did that to you? And why?” My question prompts him to shake his head violently.
“It doesn’t matter who did this, the most important thing is that I will never be rude to people who work in the food service industry. Actually—” he stands up and gathers his things. “This will be the last time I come here. I’m moving to Tuzla. Much strength, Lana.”
And he’s gone.
I don’t have time to process what the fuck just happened because Marco calls my name. I shake my head to compose myself and plaster on a smile.
A fake smile.
Before I leave, I gather the money and tuck the tip away safely in my apron.
“How are you today, Marco? I hope your daughter feels better, and again, I’m so incredibly sorry for what happened the other night.” He waves his hand dismissively and gives me a huge smile.
“All is good. Can I have a quick sandwich withsalama1?”
“Certainly. It’ll be out in a minute. I bet you had a long night, so does a double-shot espresso sound good?” I raise my eyebrow and cock my head a bit in a playful manner.
It’s important to know who is sitting at your table.
“I had a rough night at the playground, so coffee sounds amazing.” I clock what he says immediately and repeat what he said in a louder voice because it’s so absurd.
“The playground? What were you doing at a playground?” I laugh a bit, but to Marco this isn’t a laughing matter.
