Page 90 of Undefined Terms

I sit at the table by the window, the menu in front of me, words I don’t understand. Confit. Jus. Dauphinoise. I know what a potato is. Don’t need three syllables to get there.

The waiter comes, not Celyn, a bloke, big arms, beard, tattoo on the wrist. Asks if I want a drink. I order a pint. He looks at me like the pint doesn’t go with the tablecloth. Fair enough.

And then.

Celyn comes out of the kitchen door and the door swings shut behind them and they’re carrying two plates, one on each hand, the wrist turned, the balance perfect. Black t-shirt. Apron tied at the waist, the strings wrapped twice because they’re long and Celyn’s narrow. The hair up. Tied back, the knot messy, strands falling. The cheekbone.

Clean. Shaved. Smooth in a way I haven’t seen in, when was the last time. The jaw. The bone under the skin, no shadow, no scratch. The neck bare, the collarbone where the t-shirt dips. The mouth doing the professional thing, the smile that’s not the smile I know. The one for tables, for the room.

The hands, bare, no polish. No ring, the ring’s gone for the shift, hygiene, rules. The fingers on the plate edge. Steady. The small burns from here, the marks of oil and oven and service. Working hands, different work.

My eye keeps reaching for the colour. Red, orange, violet, any of them. Something for the focus to land on. Nothing there. Just the nails short and pink-clean and the small burn on the knuckle, and the absence is a sound in my head. The colour’s been how I found those hands in a room for months. Today it’s off and I’m still finding them. That does something to my ribs.

Celyn puts the plates down, table six, leans in, couple laughs. Celyn turns, walks back, apron, hips.

Under the t-shirt, at the waist, where the apron strings cross. The elastic. Visible for a second when they reach for the notepad. The stretch of fabric at the hip. Black, lace. The edge of something that doesn’t match the uniform.

I look at the menu. Confit. Right.

Two hours.

I’ve been sat at this table for two hours. The pint’s been replaced by a second pint. The bread’s gone. I ordered the chicken, the one without the French words, and it came and it sat on the plate and I ate some of it and I couldn’t tell you what it tasted like because I’ve been watching Celyn work.

How they move. Between tables, through the door, past the bar. The rhythm. It’s a site rhythm, I know it because I’ve got one. The confidence in the movement, knowing where everything is, the sidestep past the corner table. The hand that pushes the kitchen door at the exact point where it swings widest. The turn that puts the plates down and picks up the empties in the same motion.

Competence, that’s the word. And watching it is. Celyn carrying three plates on one arm, not the easy way. The show-off way. The food hitting the table at the exact angle where the customer sees the plate face-first. The smile, the one for the room. The voice, louder here, clearer, the Welsh in it pulled back because the customers don’t need the accent, they need the specials.

And the hands. The skin red from the soap. I’ve never seen Celyn’s hands naked like this. By the time I see them after a shift, the cream’s on. Damage hidden. Here I can see it. Plates. Heat. Hours.

The small burn on the knuckle that I want to put my mouth on later when the restaurant’s dark and the apron’s off and the hands are mine again.

A woman at table three. Older. Grey hair, nice coat, the sort who calls everyone darling. She touches Celyn’s arm. Just the forearm, just the fingers, how people touch waiters when they want attention. Nothing, it’s nothing.

My hand tightens on the glass.

The heat, low, in the gut, with teeth.

Celyn turns to the woman. Smiles, moves on, the touch is gone, two seconds, nothing.

I put the glass down. Wipe my palms on my jeans under the table.

Bollocks.

‘You’ve been here two hours.’

The restaurant’s closing, Celyn at my table, the apron untied, draped on the bench. The hair still up but looser, pieces falling. Shaved clean. The tiredness around the eyes that looks good on some people and Celyn is some people.

‘The food’s good.’

Celyn looks at my plate. The chicken, half-eaten, the potatoes moved around. The jus, whatever that is, congealed.

‘You haven’t touched the food.’

‘I ate the bread.’

The half-smile, the one that opens a crack and closes. They sit down opposite me, fold the apron, put it on the table.

‘I saw you come in,’ Celyn says. ‘First five minutes. Thought. Right, he’s going to sit there all night, isn’t he.’