I put a knife down harder than necessary.
Marc looks up.
I look at him.
He looks back at his sauce.
Smart man.
By midday, the kitchen is functioning well enough that no one can accuse me of distraction. That’s the distinction that matters. I am not careless. I am not imprecise. I am not missing calls, overlooking plates, or letting service bend around my private inconvenience.
I’m simply aware of a woman I do not know in every quiet space the work fails to occupy. That’s intolerable—but it’s also true.
After lunch prep, a produce delivery arrives with cherries, basil, tomatoes, and a crate of peaches that are not ready. I check the peaches and refuse them.
The driver sighs. “Chef, they are close.”
“Close is what people say when they want me to finish their job.”
“They will be ready tomorrow.”
“Then bring them tomorrow.”
The driver looks at Julien, as if Julien might translate me into a softer language.
Julien says, “Bring them tomorrow.”
The driver leaves with the peaches and several opinions he is wise enough not to share.
Julien marks the refusal and looks at me.
“You’re in a mood.”
“I’m at work.”
“Yes,” Julien says. “That’s usually where your moods go to hide.”
I turn toward him. “Do you have something you want to say?”
“No,” Julien says.
“Good.”
“I have several things I am choosing not to say.”
“Choose harder.”
Julien lowers his voice. “Chef.”
“I know.”
“I did not say anything.”
“Don’t.”
He watches me for another second, then nods and returns to the prep list.
By evening, the restaurant has given me what I asked for. The clean brutality of routine. Staff meal. Service prep. Final checks. Calls. Plates. Corrections. Guests beginning to arrive. The familiar rise of the room as dinner takes hold. For hours, the work keeps me where I belong.
