Spray, scrub, cycle, dry, stack, don’t bother Andy. I think I can remember that much.
I spend the next two hours on dish duty. Every time I clear the sink, Asha and Lou come by and unload a million more dirty bowls and pans and cups for me to handle, and whenever I do manage to get ahead, I go out and help them bus tables. It’s mindless work, but it keeps me busy, and it gives me a better vantage point from which to watch everyone else. Whenever I stack dishes on the drying rack, I get a glimpse of Sam at the grill, stirring and flipping and frying. He’s so into it.
It’s kind of hot.
I don’t know where that thought comes from, but before I let it go any further, I rush back to the sink just as Lou bursts through the swinging door with an armful of messy bowls.
“Chili, chili, chili.” She sighs as she dumps them next to the sink. “Everyone wants the goddamn chili tonight.”
Even all frazzled, Lou still looks as if she just stepped out of a pin-up calendar, like Bettie Page or something. If Bettie Page wore hot-pink sneakers, that is.
She brushes her thick bangs out of her eyes and looks at me. “You okay? Your face is kind of red.”
I just shrug in response. Not like I’m champing at the bit to explain that I don’t know if it’s the steam or Sam’s vaguely erotic cooking expertise causing my cheeks to feel like they’re on fire.
The worst of the dinner rush ends around nine o’clock. I start putting away the last of the dried dishes when I discover some kind of sifting bowl that I’m not sure where to put away, so I walk up to Sam, who is sponging down the counter, and tap him on the shoulder.
“Colander,” he says, pointing to the bowl. He opens up a cupboard over my head. “That goes here.”
I stand on my tiptoes, trying to shove it in to no avail. Sam gently takes it from me and slides it into the cupboard space. His whole body presses against my back for a moment, arm brushing mine, and my breath catches.