Rachel and I sneak into the walk-in meat freezer even though we’ve got an hour left of our shift. We light cigarettes and shiver and duck when the maître d’ walks past looking for us. She tells me she loves me and she’s going to miss me, and I tell her I’d rather die in this freezer than work here without her.
She wonders what would happen if we got locked inside, if we’d get hypothermia and die—what an awful way to go—then apologizes and says she hasn’t taken her meds and the intrusive thoughts come when she skips them. I jiggle the door handles to show her they’re unlocked, and even if they weren’t, we’d hold each other and stay warm amongst the cuts of ribs and flanks and other bloody pieces of meat that we couldn’t afford on the salary we make serving them. But Rachel reminds me she isn’t into other women no matter how much I wish she was. I tell her how I didn’t know I liked girls until I drunkenly made out with one in high school and then everything made sense after that.
She laughs and says she really likes the line cook, though, and he likes her back. They’ve gone on two dates already and doesn’t that make her a bad person if she did something with someone who wasn’t him, especially if it was just a kiss she’d already decided not to enjoy? I remind her that she’s moving and that a long distance relationship with him wouldn’t work because men lack empathy, so we shouldn’t even consider his feelings. She smiles and looks at the ground and hums. I pretend not to hope.
I say maybe she’s hiding something, maybe she’d like it if she tried, but then we stand there and exhale smoke and chatter our teeth together and laugh because we both know we won’t kiss, no matter how much I want us to. I remind her that huddling together for warmth would be a tool for survival and not inherently sexual unless she wanted it to be, which I know she wouldn’t, but Brokeback Mountain happened so why not Brokeback Walk-In? She tells me she’s never seen that movie and doesn’t understand the reference and for a moment I’m glad, but then I want her to tell me she’s joking and that since this is her last shift, she might as well give it a try.
But instead she flicks bread crumbs from underneath her fingernails and sucks the butter and oil from the fish dish she just served and sighs, remembering she needs to bring a rum and coke to the fat guy eating alone at table nine. If she plays her cards right, she says, he’ll leave an even fatter tip, which she needs to pay off her plane tickets. To stop her from leaving I begin to cry, but the tears aren’t real, and I tell her that I really can’t be left alone in this place, even though I know that’s not true. She ashes her cigarette on a communal vodka bottle we all pull from between shifts and wraps me in her arms.
Rachel shushes me and strokes my hair. Our noses are freezing and our fingertips are turning pink. I feel her thumb brushing the edge of my ear. I wish I had never showed her that the door was unlocked and pretended we were actually stuck in here together so that she would have to stay with me, even though our tables were waiting and their food was going cold. I think about how my mother called me selfish and I wish I could tell her she was right, but I all I can focus on are Rachel’s lips and keeping her in this freezer.
Then I’m sharing Rachel’s cigarette and I don’t remember where mine went or if I was even smoking one to begin with and I badly joke that when she leaves, I’m just going to have to date the line cook because it’s the closest thing I’ll have to her, and then I’m mumbling something else and I can’t stop myself from admitting how much I like her and it’s making her uncomfortable, I can see it, but I can’t stop the words from coming. I tell her we could have a cottage in Vermont and raise cats and chickens and crochet, isn’t that something she would like? I realize how insane I sound but what if these are the words she needs to hear that will stop her from leaving?
And then I’m actually crying because Rachel will never love me the way that I want her to love me and it’s hitting me for once. My body shakes and my hands tremble and I can’t even imagine flambéing a custard table-side like I’ve been needing to do. And she tells me it’s alright, but she’s inching toward the door and grimacing in a way that she’s never done before. And because this will be the last time I ever see her, I kiss her, and she pushes me off into the hanging racks of lamb. She hesitates before she leaves, but then she does, and I wait a few minutes before leaving too.
The warmth of the kitchen prickles my skin and everybody is looking at me and I figure Rachel told them what I did and that she must be furious. I want to apologize. The maître d’ tells me that Rachel resigned and I need to cover her tables, so I walk behind the bar and make a rum and coke and drink it myself before I make another one and bring it to the fat guy, who ends up leaving me his number and a hundred dollar tip that should’ve been Rachel’s. He doesn’t even realize his waitress changed halfway through his meal, but it doesn’t matter. I keep the receipt and call as soon as I clock out.
Jared Fembleaux is a literary fiction and short story writer based in Brooklyn, NY. His work has appeared in Maudlin House, Flash Fiction Magazine, and The Hopkins Review (forthcoming).
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