A Fictional Jealousy

“Oh John, you’re so funny! God I love spending time with you.” I hear the newest blonde on his arm intoning. She’s annoying and his false smile tells me he isn’t in this relationship for the long haul. She is just another good time. I can’t help but wish I were her. She has the opportunity to be with the man I have admired and fantasized about for years. So much so, I named my vibrator after him. I see him almost every time he is in town. He wouldn’t recognize me if I showed up on his front step.

I am not stalking him. Well, not exactly. I keep this part time job just so I have the chance to be near him every once in a while. I also have season tickets to the Cubs and White Sox in the same section he is in. My view of the game is crappy, but I have a great view of him when he attends. I am looking into his eyes as I walk over to the table, “Excuse me Miss, the chef said he is not willing to make the substitution you requested. Would you like something different or would the potato suffice?” I say. She seems stunned. I smile and try to stay professional. It is so hard to do with him sitting just to my right.

He hasn’t shaved and I want to run my hand across the stubble. Instead, his hand is there, supporting the weight of his head as he leans on the table. He is wearing a blue suit and a soft smile. I can tell I am taking quick shallow breaths and try to even out my breathing. I love the feelings of excitement, of fear, and of tasting just a bit of the forbidden fruit. This is what his presence does to me. I can’t imagine what his touch would do. One day, perhaps, I will know that too.

I return and tell the chef that she will take the potato and see to my other tables. I take glances at their table as frequently as I can. I catch small snippets of their dinner. There is laughter, flirting, story telling, and the touching of hands. I live vicariously through her, all the while wishing she wasn’t there. It’s a familiar scenario and I soak it up every time. And then my boss is waving me to come into the kitchen. I walk over, focused once again, wondering what he wants.

“Jane, what are you doing?” he asks clearly frustrated.

“My job, sir.” I am confused and I am sure it shows in my behavior and my face. My voice is professional, serious, confident.

“Your job does not include standing in the middle of the restaurant and ruefully staring at a guest while ogling their date. Now, we all know about your crush on Mr. Cusack, but tonight it has gone too far. I’m sending you home before you make a bigger scene. When you come in tomorrow, I suggest you be ready to do your job. I doubt that will be a problem. The bigger concern is that you do your job when he is next in. If you can’t behave professionally then, I will need to take you off the schedule or send you home on the nights he is here. Do you understand?”

It is my turn to be stunned. I don’t know what I was doing, but it has caused a stir among my co-workers. I look past my supervisor to John’s table. The chef has personally delivered the meal to the table. John is waving him on, shaking his head while his date giggles. The chef is apologizing and trying to make amends by making a personal appearance.

I can feel a cold tear slide down my flushed cheeks. I am humiliated by whatever I have done and want to leave. My life feels as it is crashing around me. My only clear thought is that I hate her. I hate that woman for having him.