Just one of those days

Almost from the time I woke up, hungover, tired and late, I had that feeling. You know the one – it’s going to be one of those days, those days when everything goes wrong. I stumbled to the bathroom, splashed around in the shower for about 5 seconds, fell into my clothes and out the door. The bus was coming and I had to run for it at the inhumane hour of 5:45 am.

The first bus that morning was full of the typical early weekend morning crowds: restaurant workers, health care workers, a couple of security guards, and the random assortment of drunk, deranged, and/or homeless, some of whom were smellier and louder than others. The second bus was waiting for me as I walked through Chinatown, and waiting on that bus was THE smelliest, loudest homeless guy, infesting it with stench. All I could do was sigh, sit up front, and hope the ride went quickly, with lots of fresh air from my newly opened window.

It was going to be a beautiful day, no doubt about it. The air was light and still had a touch of crispness to it. I wanted to stop at The Evil Empire for a venti triple mocha, but I knew I didn’t even have enough money for that, so I headed straight for the inn. As I entered and passed through the lobby and the dim front lounge, I was startled by the night desk clerk sitting ominously in a darkened corner. Everything about the inn and its restaurant had a foreboding quality to it, and the night desk clerk quietly following me around at a distance didn’t help at all.

Coffee. Coffee was what I needed, so, as normal, I went through the kitchen to the main wait station to make it. Desperately I searched for the filter basket to make my liquid gold, to no avail. No on else was at the restaurant yet, no one could help me and the stalking night desk clerk was driving me mad and giving me the creeps.

Feeling as If I was swimming through mud, I despaired and retired to the alley out back for a smoke. After that, the day started to go faster, but not much better. We finally found the filter basket and made coffee, then I got hung up on when I couldn’t promise a caller a reservation from the book to which I didn’t have access. I spilled a huge tub of homemade granola, dropped cutlery on the floor, burned my finger on a hot tea caddy, stumbled into a door and earned a rather nice bruise for that effort, and had to make about a bazillion cappuccinos (go to The Evil Empire for those, motherfuckers, I suck at making foam!). By the end of the breakfast shift, I had earned a total of $10, a few more bruises and burns, and a rather bad attitude.

And then the rest of the brunch shift arrived. A new start! Fresh smiling faces to joke and play with, some of my favorite co-workers. See, in the restaurant business, the other people on the floor with you make all the difference in how your day goes. The job is incredibly stressful and we let off frustration and steam in our play out of customers’ sight, back at the wait stations or in the kitchen. And on that day, even my very favorite co-worker E was on and working the patio with me. Hello, tag team! Tag team means that we both basically work the entire section, so customers get 2 servers instead of just one. Nobody gets ignored, nobody has to wait too long for a request to be filled. Tag team also means we both get better tips. However, to make a good tag team, you almost have to be able to read each others’ minds, and to communicate strictly through glances sometimes.

Anybody who has worked in the food service industry knows that it is fraught with sexual tension. First of all, there is the stress, and the sexual innuendos and joking and playing around help alleviate that. Also, the vast majority of restaurant workers in the front of the house are attractive and single. Not to mention, most are of a rather laidback attitude, fun and outgoing.

So it should come as no surprise that E and I had a very flirtatious, sexually-charged relationship. He’s a very attractive Latino man (phroar!) with a gorgeous body, flashing dark eyes, is smart, funny, and has an adorable sexy accent. And I’m, well, me, need I say more? And when it came to the end of brunch and we were relaxing at the bar with our shift drink (gotta love perks) and the manager needed someone to go buy ice, we volunteered to go. Was I surprised that as we went for ice, he asked me if I wanted to go get a drink? Yes and no. Yes, because my self-esteem has been battered for a few years. But no, not really. If I’d paid any attention, I would have noticed a certain way E had of looking at me, touching me, talking to me.

In the end, we went to E’s house (because he’d left his wallet there) and had a bottle of wine and talked for a couple hours. I learned that E was 38, from El Salvador, got his degree at U of Md., works in IT, speaks French and Italian as well as Spanish and English. I also learned that my body responded to his touch like he designed it himself. We got hungry and went out for some fantastic Thai food with another bottle of wine, then returned to the house to sit outside overlooking a huge, wooded park on a beautiful, perfect night and talk for more hours.

And in the morning, after a night of fabulous, tender, rough, dirty, sweet sex, I woke up in another woman’s bed with her husband and wondered when it would be my turn to have that life every night and every morning.

And that’s how I took a Latin lover and became that which I hate, the “other woman.” On just one of those days when everything goes wrong.