She entered through the staff entrance and clocked in. The kitchen was already alive with noise, chefs shouting orders, pans clattering. She tied her apron and checked her reflection in the small mirror by the door. Professional. Presentable.
Invisible. "Amara, you've got section three tonight." Marcus, the floor manager, said without looking up from his tablet. "“VIP reservations. Don’t mess it up.”" "I won't." She walked into the dining room. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting warm golden light across white tablecloths and silver cutlery.
Piano music drifted from the corner, where a woman in an evening gown played something soft and classical. The air smelled like expensive wine and fresh flowers. Amara moved between tables, taking orders, pouring water, smiling. The guests barely looked at her. She was part of the furniture, there to serve and disappear.
Then she saw him. He sat alone at table 12, a man in his 70s with thin white hair and trembling hands. He wore a suit that might have been elegant once, but now hung loose on his frame. His eyes were focused on the menu, but his hands shook so badly he could barely hold it. Amara approached.
"“Good evening, sir. Can I start you with something to drink?”" He looked up, and she saw the embarrassment in his eyes. "“Water would be... water would be fine.”" His voice was soft, almost apologetic. She poured his water and waited while he studied the menu.
His hands continued to shake. After a moment, he set the menu down. "“I’ll have the... the chicken. The roasted chicken.”" "“Excellent choice.
That comes with seasonal vegetables and...” “Yes, that’s fine. Thank you.”" She took the menu and walked back to the kitchen. Something about him stayed with her. The loneliness in his eyes. The way he tried to steady his hands and failed.
When she brought out his food, she placed it carefully in front of him. He looked at the plate, then at his hands, and she saw his shoulders sag slightly. He picked up the fork. It trembled in his grip. He tried to spear a piece of chicken, but the fork wavered and slipped.
He tried again. The fork clinked against the plate. Amara glanced around. At the next table, a woman in diamonds whispered to her companion. They were both staring at the old man.