"Is Shari crazy mad?" I ask Es.
Es just rolls her eyes. "Puh-lease." She takes the napkin from my hand and dabs under my eyes. "Look up," she says, as she fixes my makeup. "Darlin', you need to get a car or learn to appreciate public transportation. This is not the weather for walking in."
Before I can argue with her, she saunters off. I sigh and look up at Jesus hanging on the cross. He always looks so reproachful, as if to say, 'You think you have problems?' but then again, maybe he's just checking out the naked sculptures behind the bar. The decor of The Roxy is nearly as famous as the cheeky staff and artery scorching foods. I run to the back to clock in. But when I turn the corner, there's a small group of people, Shari and Es included, holding a Chocolate Suicide Cake alight with candles. They begin to sing a morbid happy birthday song about death and then they laugh uproariously and someone smacks me on the butt as I lean in to blow out the candles.
Shari hugs me. "Happy Birthday, girl. You didn't have to come in today."
I hug her back. "Yes I did. But thank you."
Es hugs me next, her tall body dwarfing me. She was a tall man once upon a time, and makes an even taller woman, given social stereotypes. But she is all woman, and one of my best friends in the world. Being transgender in a binary world can't be easy, and every day I admire the courage it takes for her to just be herself. Maybe that's why we became best friends almost instantly the day I started working here, because in our own way, we each feel this disconnect to the life we were born into. I have tears in my eyes when I look up at her. "You should have warned me," I chide.
"Neva'!" she says, a twinkle in her brown eyes as she flips her blond hair out of her face.
Shari hands me a slice of cake. "Eat up. The customers can wait."
As if on cue, someone from the bar raises his voice, complaining about the service. "What’s taking so damn long? What are you all doing back there, twiddling your thumbs?"
Shari's face hardens as she storms out to give that customer a piece of her mind. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize we were married in a past life."
It's a line she uses a lot. Sometimes it works, shifting the mood into happy. When it doesn't, the customer is kicked out, blacklisted from the best diner in Portland. Their loss.
This time it works. The customer apologizes, Shari is gracious, and all is well in the world of The Roxy.
I love it here. It's my family. My second home. I've lived alone with my mother my whole life. My father died when I was a toddler and we have no other relatives. Death, disease, life... has stolen them all. It's only here, at The Roxy, that I have any real family to call my own, outside of my mother.
I finish my cake and check in to see which tables I have. I'm ready.
The night is long, but fun. We have our regulars, the guy who almost never speaks, wears the same thing every day, but always leaves a nice tip and is kind to us all, the drag queen who likes to flirt with our cook, those coming off their shifts at other bars, who are too sober and properly dressed to be out drinking all night... I greet them by name, serve them what they love most, sass them just enough to make them feel like family, like this is their place too, because it is.
But when he walks in, it's like time stands still. He's not a regular. He's never been here before. I don't know how I know this, but I know he's here for me. And my hands shake when I walk up to him, sitting in a booth alone, not looking at his menu. He has hair dark as night and eyes like the moon and sea. His skin is pale and perfect and he looks as if he's been carved from marble. He wears a tailored suit too perfect to be purchased off the rack. We get all kinds at The Roxy, but not his kind. He has no kind.
And he makes me nervous.
"What can I get you?" I ask, my tongue tripping over itself.
He looks up at me and smiles. "Are you on the menu?"
This is not the first time I've been hit on at The Roxy. It's a regular occurrence. They flirt, I flirt, or I sass, depending on my mood. What I don't do, what I never do, is stutter.
Until now.
I literally stutter. My armpits are sweating, my head feels hot and I might have a sudden fever. I also might vomit. What is wrong with me? Is Insta-flu a thing? Because if it is, I've clearly contracted it.
He looks amused. "Are you all right?" His voice is rich and he's got the sexiest accent, something of a cross between British and South African. He holds up his glass of water to me, his long slender fingers so perfectly manicured. "Drink."
I take the glass, and our hands touch. A chill runs through my body and I nearly drop the glass. What am I doing? I can't drink a customer's water. I put it back on the table. "I'm fine. Just... hot."